Roommates
by DandelionOnFire
Summary: AU. After Katniss Everdeen is fired from her job, she believes that the best way for her twin sister to complete her medical education in college is to save money. She is persuaded to move in the house of her only girl friend's cousin. Though, how does she react when she realizes having the blond-haired and blue-eyed boy as a roommate isn't as easy as she expected it to be?
1. One: December & January

**A big thank you to** Cat **and **Red **(**a.k.a TheAfterShock**) for beta-ing this chapter and supporting/helping me with it.**

Notes:

_#1 for those of you who are already following me, I promise I haven't forgotten about the one-shot. I still intend on finishing what I have started, but I couldn't really wait anymore. The beginning of this story had been ready since the end of July and I'm very curious to see what you think of it. Besides, I think I've been hiding for long enough ;)_

_#2 Modern Day, **seven** **chapters**, AU (I have practically messed with everyone's ages. If there are any questions or things you need me to clear out, don't hesitate to ask.)_

_#3 feedback—positive or negative—is highly appreciated. Also, if you leave a comment, but **don't** **wish to see a preview** of the next chapter, **let me know! (Review=sneak peek**/spoilers for part 2)_

_#4 the characters will often be a bit off, even though I'm still trying not to cross a specific line. Take into account the different circumstances and background (you will find more about the characters' past in future chapters, so having questions is neither unusual nor unexpected)._

Words: **9,263**(Normal word limits: 8,000-14,000)

Disclaimer:_Credit to multiple authors (from multiple fandoms) for coming up with the title "Roommates" and giving me __**the idea **__of a plot to work on and—of course—__**Suzanne Collins **__for her intriguing characters._

Update: _15.09.2012_

* * *

**One: December and January**

She's cold. It is barely the first week of December and she's freezing. She rubs her gloved hands together, hoping to warm herself by creating as much friction as possible, but she feels like the desperate action is futile anyway. She watches the faint fumes of her unsteady breathing in the darkness as she lifts a trembling, clenched fist to knock on the massive brown door in front of her. The lamp hanging on the doorframe illuminates the threshold she's standing on at the moment, soothing her uneasiness even for just a few moments. She knows where she is, she sees where she's going.

Familiar footsteps are heard from inside the house almost immediately after Katniss's hand connects with the surface of the wood. She prays for the door to swing open seconds before it actually does, revealing the flushed face of her best friend, a wide grin spreads across her pale, rosy lips. Katniss has absolutely no idea how she can be so cheery on a moment like that. She knows they've both had much better days.

Madge is still smiling like a fool.

"Do you plan on letting me in?" she asks after a couple of seconds, her teeth involuntarily gritting together, a violent shiver running down her already trembling spine.

"Oh, right, sorry," the girl mumbles and steps aside, allowing access to Katniss. Madge rushes to close the door after her friend is in, in fear of getting cold herself.

"This had better be good, Madge," Katniss grumbles. She doesn't wait for permission as she kicks her boots off her feet right beside the first piece of furniture she comes across in the hallway, where she always does. Madge doesn't wait for her to finish her ritual. Instead, she walks away from her, disappearing into the place Katniss knows to be the kitchen of the large house. Being the mayor's daughter in this town has given Madge many privileges—more than she'd ever wish to gain.

It doesn't take long for Katniss to be in the same room as Madge, observing her while she moves around it. She turns around and gives her another smile, which manages to make Katniss even more suspicious than before. Madge never smiles so much without a serious reason. She's not like the rest of Katniss's former classmates in high school, and this is why they both prefer each other's company to anyone else's.

"Hot chocolate?" Madge offers. Katniss usually declines kindly by saying a "_no, thank you_" or "_maybe another time_", but she wants to have a hot chocolate at the moment. She _needs _it. She slowly bobs her head.

"Enjoying your day off?" the blonde-haired girl asks. There is no sarcasm—Madge's intentions are not bad. Katniss's face falls at the question, anyway. She leans forward, her elbow touching the table, her cheek firmly pressed against her palm.

"It's not a day off," she whines pathetically. "I got _fired._" She emphasizes the last word, making sure she is heard.

"Remind me…," Madge starts. Her back is turned on Katniss, but the brunette can imagine the thoughtful expression that must be plastered on her face right now. "What was the reason again?"

Katniss scoffs in disbelief. "You do remember," she points out, narrowing her eyes at Madge. "I arrived one hour and thirty-two minutes late at work." Her boss made sure she heard her mistake multiple times.

"One hour and thirty-_two _minutes late at work. If I were them, I'd give you a second chance," Madge murmurs.

"You're not them, though," Katniss grumbles. "They had every right to get rid of me. To tell you the truth, I always felt like Mr. Snow secretly hated me for just working there." There were also those times she wondered why he had hired her as an employee in the first place. After every single time she followed his orders word for word, she would be rewarded with the oddest stare—a stare that looked more like a glare—she had ever seen. It was as if he was expecting her to fall in a trap, make a mistake, be as imperfect as possible. It was as if he was anticipating for the moment to literally kick her out—and that's what he did. He called her an irresponsible, reckless young girl. Young is nothing but an insult, a terrible flaw to him, Katniss realized.

"I never liked your boss." Madge has now occupied the stool right beside her friend's. "Manipulative. Tightfisted. He thought of himself oh-so highly."

"He wasn't so bad at business," Katniss remarks. As a result, Madge narrows her eyes at her, the silent warning in her blue irises never to be spoken.

"You're defending him," she accuses. Katniss isn't sure how to reply. Thus, she simply chooses not to.

"Business?" Madge snorts in the process of repeating the word Katniss had used to describe Coriolanus Snow's activities. "He owns a grocery shop, for God's sake."

"A grocery shop that ensured Prim and me money." Katniss lets a long, audible sigh slide from her lips. She'd prefer not to talk about her misfortune, but she knows she has no choice—not really. All she has in mind is helping her twin sister complete her medical education in college. It is what their mother did when she was still a student. (Before she became a nurse, she was just a healer in their village, District Twelve. There was no profit from this job other than the simple satisfaction of being an active member in the small society there, but there were also more important reasons for her to stay. Falling in love with Katniss's father, despite any kind of objections and against all odds, was definitely among them.) And now it's what Primrose aspires to do.

"You've already given up on so many things." Katniss is aware of the fact. She doesn't need to be reminded and she surely isn't in the mood at the moment. Madge seems to have other plans, though. She continues. "For one, you sold your house in Twelve."

"Don't even mention it. That was years ago, when my parents were…" _alive_. "…responsible for us. It was sad to know I wouldn't live there again, but it's over now."

Madge sidesteps Katniss's comments.

"You also refused to go to college, so Prim's fees will be taken care of. Furthermore, _you _are the one taking care of them."

"You refused to go to college, too."

"That's different. I chose not to go because I don't want to." _Because I don't need to, _Katniss interprets in her head, even if the meaning of Madge's words is entirely different. There are times like these, when she wants to actually dislike her best friend, but can't. Even though Madge will have anything she asks for on a silver platter without much effort, Katniss neither envies her (how could she? She doesn't need a big house to lose herself in. She doesn't need a mentally ill mother to take care of. She doesn't need a busy father who won't even sit down and talk to her. She doesn't need piles of gold—she wants to believe her father and keep in mind that money doesn't bring happiness in life, no matter what) nor despises her. Madge has a way of being so clever, yet so innocent. She is responsible for nothing bad that has happened to Katniss. No, quite the opposite.

"Prim isn't selfish. She appreciates what I'm doing." She has absolutely no idea where the urge to defend her sister is coming from. There was nothing implied—her friend makes sure to confirm the fact.

"Of course she does. Anyone would appreciate you, Katniss." She smiles again. "I just might want to help you. I might have a solution for you."

Katniss shakes her head furiously. "No." There is no way she's allowing that. "You're not helping me." She realizes the look in Madge's eyes is the one of hurt. She flinches slightly, but adds another sentence after her first one, anyway. "You're not giving me anything." She wants to put emphasis on the last part so badly, though, it would sound too cruel. Katniss can be too cruel sometimes. She doesn't necessarily wish for it, especially when the person—Madge, in this particular case—doesn't deserve this kind of treatment.

A spark of recognition flashes in the blonde's eyes.

"No, no, I wasn't…" She exhales. "I wasn't talking about offering you anything. I know you're not fond of being confronted this way." _I know you're not fond of being pitied._

"Right," Katniss mumbles. _You're being rude again, _she tells herself. "Remember there's not that much you can do, Madge," she says, then her expression sorrowful.

"You want to save money," Madge declares.

"I do."

"And you want to find a way to work, so that you can keep having income." She does. Katniss shoots her a bewildered glance. "But you want to know how to save money first."

"You've lost me," Katniss confesses and takes a large sip of her chocolate, missing the burning sensation of the liquid on her tongue (and down her throat) already. It is starting to get cold.

"Great." The sarcasm dripping off Madge's voice doesn't go unnoticed. "There really is no easy way of me saying it, is there?"

Katniss shrugs, knowing this is the best she can do for now.

"We'll start from the beginning," the mayor's daughter announces. "Forget about your job. Forget about Snow, Prim, college, fees—everything." Katniss parts her lips to protest. She is interrupted. "Forget it all just for a single minute." She nods in defeat.

"Okay," she whispers, her voice hoarse.

"I have a cousin."

Katniss cocks an eyebrow. "You have many cousins."

"Let's talk about this cousin. He's almost half a year older than us. He turned nineteen just a month ago. He has a house in Twelve."

"He does?" Katniss asks indifferently. She really doesn't know what this cousin of Madge's has to do with her problems. She is, however, about to find out. "What about college?"

Madge shakes her head. "No," she says. "He owns the bakery there. He _had_ enough qualifications—he used to get straight A's."

"Like Prim," Katniss says proudly. So much for forgetting about her…

"Like Prim," Madge agrees.

"What happened, then?"

Madge sighs. "A lot of things happened. He has no problem with finances. In fact, he's truly well-off. He has already helped two of his classmates from his village—well, your village."

Katniss had figured this one out by herself. He did have a house in Twelve, after all, as Madge said earlier.

"He has…," Madge hesitates. She clears her throat. "…He has shared his house with one of them. They were roommates," she explains.

"Alright."

"But he has sworn off cohabiting with people he knows will take advantage of him. He did everything on his own—housework, bills, and such—as long as he lived with that moron whose name I don't even remember." Madge is indeed pretty talkative today.

Katniss decides to take another sip of her drink the moment her girl friend speaks. "He might have not admitted it yet, but I'm sure he's also sworn off living with boys in general. They're all…"

She keeps talking, but Katniss has stopped listening. She looks at her, the cup still pressed in-between her upper and bottom lip, making it impossible for her to bite on anything but the clay utensil. She doesn't like where this conversation is going.

"Katniss." Her name is pronounced so strangely that curiosity gets the better of her and she has no other choice but to acknowledge Madge. "Have you ever thought of having a roommate?"

She doesn't like where this conversation is going _at all_.

She swallows carefully, before she slowly places the cup back on the huge kitchen table. She shifts on her seat until she is sure Madge will have the chance to face her fully. She prays the girl is not implying what she thinks she is. The rhetorical thought echoes almost immediately inside her head; _when did prayers ever ease her problems?_

"No," is her truthful response. She hasn't thought of having a roommate, and she wants to claim she won't dare to think of it in the near future. "I haven't," she adds. It is simple as that.

"Katniss—"

"—I don't know your cousin."

"But he's waiting for an answer," Madge reasons.

"My answer is no. I can't live in somebody else's home without knowing them. I can't be a burden. I just can't," Katniss replies confidently, hoping she will finally be understood.

"You can agree on paying rent. You will have half of his house and we'll help you find a job in the village. It's much easier than in town," she insists.

Katniss taps her fingertips on the surface of the table, her eyes still shooting daggers at it. Her name is called.

"Please, don't be mad at me. This is just a solution I've come up with. I hadn't spoken with my cousin in months. I only did it for you," Madge lets her know.

"I'm not mad at you." Although she mutters the phrase under her breath, Madge manages to hear her. She looks relieved when her gaze connects with Katniss's. The latter doesn't know why she is constantly so worried and interested in offering her assistance. Owing is out of the question. Miss Undersee would never owe anyone.

"I need to go," Katniss says. She stands from her chair and Madge doesn't do anything to stop her. She only watches her as she gathers her things (there is nothing other than her coat, gloves and shoes) and follows her until they reach the doorstep.

Just before Katniss turns on her heel and starts walking in the cold once more, she catches her friend's sad, yet knowing look. She lets out the breath she didn't know she had been holding. She can't believe she's doing it when she says, "I'll think about it."

* * *

**December, Week Two**

Things turn out to be entirely different from what Katniss originally expected. She hadn't thought she would eventually agree with Madge on her completely absurd idea—maybe what she really needed to hear to change her mind was just her sister's voice that happened to provide her with thousands of logical arguments, stronger and more convincing than hers. She asked herself what happened to her as she took into account the fact that she has always been the practical one. Primrose normally isn't as timid as her when it comes to living her life like she means it.

She had also thought that Madge wasn't serious when she said she and her cousin would find her a job before she moved in that house. She would be working on a farm (she adores farms, even though she hasn't stepped foot on one in almost seven years) two days after she meets her roommate. She really doesn't feel like getting to know more people than she already does. However, there is no other option for her to take, right?

Madge presses her index finger on the doorbell for no more than two seconds and takes a step back, nudging Katniss's side with her elbow.

_Right._

"Come on. Smile a little. You're going to be fine."

Katniss clenches and unclenches her fists, mentally preparing herself for what "fine" is supposed to mean in her case. She isn't exactly nervous—she couldn't possibly care less for what the boy thinks of her appearance or strange habits—but she is worried. How long will it take for her to realize whether the final choice she has made is right or wrong? She prefers realizing it sooner than later, since she knows she can't run away now.

The door opens and she still can't see anything—or rather anyone. The only thing that isn't out of her eyesight is the beige-colored wall from inside the house. She wonders whether the rest of it is painted in the same dull color, when the owner steps forward.

She watches the nineteen-year-old boy approach his cousin—his looks are identical to Madge's, which is not a big surprise—and welcome her in a brief hug. This and the small exchange of words between the relatives last only some moments, but Katniss can hear nothing. The only sound reaching her ears is her blood. She can feel it as it runs in her veins, her wrists, her throat, her cheeks.

They're looking at her. She wishes she could flee this place right now.

"Good morning," he greets her. _Why him?_

She tries to respond with a "_good morning_" like him or a simple "'_morning_", but no.

"You," she says instead, narrowing her gray eyes at him. He shifts from his one foot to the other, in an attempt to find a more comfortable position while standing. His uneasiness has apparently nothing to do with something he's doing at the moment, but something he has already done.

He remembers her like she remembers him—or maybe in an entirely different way. (He knows her as the girl who sang in front of everyone in the music assembly at the age of fourteen. Better yet, he knows her voice, the one that made every single bird stop to listen. She knows him as the reason she got into a huge fight and was almost expelled at the same age.) He had been hesitant when he heard who Madge's friend really is, but couldn't really go back on his word after promising to help Katniss.

He pretends not to hear her and extends his hand towards her, a kind smile on his face. "Peeta Mellark."

"I know," she says silently enough, only for him to hear. He pretends not to hear that, either. For Madge's sake, Katniss eventually notes.

He invites them inside. His polite voice irks Katniss even more than before. He is a hypocrite. She is sure he is one of the people who seek for attention just because they have whatever they want whenever they want it. But then again, she doesn't know him.

Although it would be a lie if she ever said she isn't biased, she will act as her parents taught her to. She will not judge him by the first time she sees him or the first time she talks to him—at least, she will try not to.

This doesn't mean his smile doesn't annoy her anymore.

"Katniss Everdeen," she spits as she walks past him, even when she knows any kind of introduction is futile.

She follows Madge's footsteps. She wouldn't be able to find the courage to go further in the house, if it weren't for her best friend who's looking back at her every once in a while. She is thankful she's not completely alone in this.

Mellark's place is far from dull and boring-looking. It is unique in its own way. The objects and décor in it are neither too modern nor too outmoded. Katniss doesn't really notice those things, but she can't say she isn't fascinated by the way everything seems to be placed neatly exactly where it is supposed to be.

The living room is spacious—this is where they soon make themselves comfortable—but Katniss shrinks in the corner of the couch she and Madge are sitting on. Suddenly, she feels so terrifyingly little, she doesn't know if she can stand it for too long. She hopes this awkwardness among the three of them ends soon. What she wants to do is get this all over with.

From what Madge has told her, there is also a library on the second floor. Under different circumstances she wouldn't be only intrigued, but also overjoyed. She loves books—she could just sit and read for hours until her mind would be forced to shut off completely. Despite these facts, she knows she shouldn't take advantage of the liberties in this house like she shouldn't take advantage of Mellark. (Isn't this what he shows disdain for?)

She is snapped out of her reverie when she notices the person she is supposed to live with is not chatting with Madge anymore. Her eyes quickly land on his back and she grabs the opportunity to study him while he isn't looking at her. His shoulders are relatively broad in contrast to other mens' whose shoulders she has noticed before—even her father's. Thinking he and Madge look alike must have been one of her thousands of tiny mistakes. His hair is an ashy kind of blonde, unlike Madge's strawberry blonde hair. Mellark isn't very tall, but he isn't short, either. She bets his height still outdoes hers.

He is back within a few seconds, his fist wrapped around a small piece of paper. Before she knows it, he's standing in front of her, offering it to her. She looks at Madge, who nods for confirmation, and slowly takes it from his hand. She examines it. There are two phone numbers written on it. The ink of the pen looks fresh, so she is careful not to touch it.

"What are these?" she asks curiously.

"The first one is the house's number. The second one is mine," he replies. Katniss is grateful his annoying smile isn't directed at her anymore—if there is something she doesn't like, it's people faking who they really are. Thus, she isn't too surprised by the next words escaping her mouth.

"Why would I need your number?" She thinks she can see Madge shaking her head out of the corner of her eye.

The effect her question has on him isn't as expected. He offers a small shrug and tells her that if anything happens and she needs him, this is how she can find him.

_I won't need you._

She keeps those words to herself and makes a mental note to remember not to memorize his number in the future. She needs no one—he can't tell her that she will depend on him just because she will be living in a part of his property. Or can he?

Madge suggests Katniss give her number to _Peeta_, too. If looks could kill, Madge would have been a dead a million times by now. Katniss reluctantly obliges.

"And this," he says and digs his hand in his one pocket, fishing another object. She would have rolled her eyes, if she wasn't so attracted by it. "This is the key of the house. It's my last one, so you might want to take care of it." And with that, the smile is back on his face.

This time, it's different. It's not a polite, unreal smile. It looks like a _genuine _one, which confuses Katniss. She would never let herself form this kind of—pleasant—grimace in front of a stranger without any significant reason. Truth to be told, she cannot share such an intimate moment with just anyone. There has to be something significant, something worthy of her time beforehand. Isn't this how everyone should work?

Well, there is also her sister who is quite generous concerning offering simple gestures of kindness, but Prim often does what she _shouldn't _and doesn't do what she _should_. There are no rules.

"I can show you your room whenever you feel like it," Mellark tells her.

**.**

**.**

_His blue eyes are wide open as she grabs the collar of his blue shirt in her fists, effectively pulling him closer to her. A grimace of anger is plastered on her face as she growls, her white teeth glistening, threatening him, inviting him for a fight._

_"Who the hell do you think you are?" she shouts at him. She can feel the prying eyes of everyone in the school hallway are on her, but she still doesn't give a single damn about it. They can stay there and watch. If someone is going to be humiliated, then it's him._

_"P-Peeta Mellark," he stammers. His body almost immediately collides with the wall with a loud thud._

_"Well, stop playing it clever, Mellark."_

_"I-I didn't…I don't…" Katniss's pursed lips press even more tightly together. For some reason, the possibility of who she knows as the wrestling team's leader attacking her vanishes from her mind. Instead of being terrified by the idea, she is encouraged to continue what has been in her head all along._

_"You think I didn't hear you in front of class?"_

_"Wha—"_

_"—you really didn't think so?" She can hear a group of boys laughing their heads off from behind them. For all she knows, they could be his stupid friends._

_"Listen, I—"_

_"—no, you listen. I don't care who you really are, but if I ever hear any similar kind of comments about my sister coming out of your mouth, I'll make sure it stays shut for as long as it needs to stay shut."_

_The roaring laughter is soon accompanied by the sound of the history teacher's voice. She knows she has to stop, but she doesn't. She won't stop unless she tells him what she has to say._

_She is forcefully pulled back and takes in the sight in front of her. The boy seems to be more stunned than scared of her._

_"Miss Everdeen, please," the man's voice comes from beside her._

_"You're wrong, you know. I have nothing to do with it."_

_She struggles against her teacher's grasp, but his hold tightens around her forearm, becoming nearly too painful for her to bear._

_"I will remember you. Someday, you will pay for what you dared to say."_

_"Miss Everdeen, the principal's office. Right this instant."_

_There was something she did recognize in Peeta Mellark's eyes. He wasn't mad at her. He wasn't furious or annoyed by her behavior—not in the least. He seemed to pity her. And she hated him for it._

Her mother was the one to pick her and Prim up from school that day. Katniss guessed the teachers had called her to inform her about her daughters' progress in the new environment. Her assumptions were quickly confirmed as her mother began with her usual lecture.

_"They insulted Prim! They insulted our family!" _fourteen-year-old Katniss argued, but that didn't stop either her mother's words or her sister's look of disapproval—Prim claimed sometimes Katniss acted as if she was superior. She could do nothing but cross her arms over her chest. She muttered how she hated the "townies" over and over again and promised to hate them for the rest of her life. Once she realized the effect these kind of words could have on her father's job in town—this is why they had moved from the village—she learned how to control her rage. She preferred a hurt ego to a starved family.

Little did she know Peeta Mellark was never a townie and never considered himself one.

_Someday, you will pay for what you dared to say._

She is afraid this day will never come. She has to admit she has grown up a little since then. There is no place for revenge or hatred, even if she wants to make room for them.

She caresses the duvet covering the soft mattress she's sitting on. She realizes the bright yellow is particularly calming for her nerves. She hasn't lied down yet, but she already knows getting up in the morning will be difficult. She hopes her room isn't too cold at winter nights, since she doesn't seem to be able to find an easy way out of this situation any time soon.

What her roommate gave her is securely kept inside her other palm. There is something special about the old-fashioned key, something that draws Katniss's attention, something she can't quite place. After a long mental debate with herself, she finally comes to a decent conclusion.

_You might want to take care of it._

There is only one way for Katniss to take care of it.

Her breathing is labored as her hands reach behind her neck. She pushes the curtain of hair aside (she undid her braid moments before she lost herself in thought) and finds it; the end of the silver chain. She unclasps it and brings it to the waist of her uncomfortable jeans, studying it in the process.

She stares. The locket her father had given her (he had also given Prim a large, matching ring), the one resting on her lap, belonged to her grandmother. Old things always seemed appealing to her, this item is not an exception.

She stares more. They key slides easily through the silver chain. She struggles to put it around her neck one more time—it appears to be a more difficult task than the one of taking it off, as usual.

For now, the chain as well as what it carries are hidden by the woven sweaters Katniss chooses to wear every day—she refuses to give in to the cold. For now, her father's locket and this house's key can rest over her heart and she can remain unbothered. She's taking care of them.

* * *

**December, End Of Week Two**

She honestly has no idea where this farm she'll be working in is supposed to be, so she has no other choice than to wait for Madge. Her friend arrives almost ten minutes late at Mellark's house—she still can't say _her_house, since it really isn't—and volunteers to drive her to her new job. She still seems too eager to help and Katniss is nearly convinced they both might be enjoying spending some time together after being together for three whole years in high school.

Mellark storms out of the house as if someone is chasing him, his blonde hair a perfect mess as he hurriedly locks the door, another pair of keys caught in between his teeth. It takes him a while to realize Katniss and Madge are both staring at him strangely, almost waiting to hear an explanation for his actions.

He takes the keys out of his mouth.

"You're taking her to Sae's, then?" he asks Madge. His cousin bobs her head in confirmation. She speaks, just for good measure.

"Sure. You have the bakery, don't worry about us."

"Yeah, I'm pretty late actually. Vick's already there, but something came up and I have to get there as soon as possible." Madge shoots him a questioning glance, urging him to continue. "A wrong delivery, according to a customer. Vick freaked out." He lets them know, chuckling to himself.

Gale's brother is only fifteen, yet he has taken his job for Saturday mornings very much to heart. Peeta feels guilty for leaving the poor child alone—the bakery is his responsibility, after all.

"Do you want me to drive you there?" Madge inquires. Peeta shakes his head and shakes his keys in front of her.

"Bike," he reminds her.

Katniss scowls. "You have a bike?" she asks him. She knows her tone shouldn't be as demanding as it is, but this doesn't seem to affect Mellark, regardless.

"Yes," he says proudly. Her scowl deepens.

"I don't like bikes."

She makes her way to Madge's car and sits inside, signalling the conversation is over for her. She can already hear Madge's complaints in her head. There is no way she's not going to be asked about her stay in the house. She'll say it's good—she won't lie—but she still feels as if she lives in a hotel.

Peeta's shocked eyes follow her until she takes the front seat and hugs her arms, probably waiting for Madge to get in with her and turn the heat on. His expression soon turns into one of irritation. He feels insulted.

"Well, nobody asked you," he grunts towards Katniss's direction, even though she can't hear him from where she is.

Madge pokes him. "Be nice," she warns.

He rolls her eyes. "Now that your friend is here I'm going to have to bear your company more often, aren't I?"

She opens her mouth, unsure of what she ought to say after this.

He laughs at her frown and pinches her cheek ever so slightly. "I think she might be worse than you," he teases. He makes a small movement with his head, gesturing to his roommate. He receives a small punch on his shoulder.

**.**

**.**

"An Everdeen, huh?"

Greasy Sae, as Katniss heard Mellark call her for some reason, is a short, slim woman in her mid-fifties. Her gray hair is covered in a practical headscarf that prevents her from finding serious difficulties while working—or at least this is what Katniss supposes.

She's not sure why, though, the woman looks at her as if she already likes her and Katniss wonders whether she's one of those people she can also like without much effort. No, she's nothing like Prim who wins everyone's hearts with her mesmerizing smile and beautiful words. She seems to be, however, a humble person. Modesty is what Katniss appreciates the most.

_An Everdeen, huh?_

She can't help forming thousands of questions inside her head, after this specific statement. She recognizes the fondness in the woman's voice and feels more comfortable than she could ever be during the first day at work.

_The first day at work, if Mrs. Mason considers you capable, _she reminds herself.

"You don't remember me, child?" she suddenly asks.

Katniss shakes her head, confused. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't."

"Your parents used to bring you and your sister here since you were four. You'd both cause havoc once you were inside the hennery."

Why doesn't she remember this? She smiles at the woman's words.

"Your father was a worker here once," Mrs. Mason says. "My husband needed to fire lotta' men and he was among them." She shakes her head disapprovingly. "A terrible mistake. He has such a good heart."

He _had_ such a good heart.

"Yeah," Katniss agrees weakly.

"How's the family?"

She hesitates. Her stomach clenches at the thought of answering honestly.

"Prim is doing great. She's studying to become a doctor." _There_. That is not a lie. She's satisfied by her reply and, for now, so is Greasy Sae.

"We could use a pair of extra hands for the fields."

Katniss's eyes grow wide. Is that it? Doesn't she need to prove she can make it? Does the woman trust her so much?

"When would ya' like to start, girl?"

"I'm ready when you are, Mrs. Mason," Katniss rushes to reply, in fear of being eventually declined.

"Sae," the owner of the farm says with a crooked smile. "Call me Sae. That ol' name died when my husband did."

* * *

**December, Week Three**

Peeta's grin couldn't possibly be any wider than it is at this very moment. Madge chews on her bottom lip to keep the brief laugh from escaping her.

"I was right," Peeta states as he steps aside, allowing Madge entrance in the house.

"About?"

"Your visits. They're way too frequent."

"Yeah, yeah, _now that my friend is here you're going to have to bear my company more often_," she repeats his words from some time ago.

"She's not here, though. You should have known. Sundays are my days off. Hers are Wednesdays," he tells her. He looks puzzled and somehow has a bad feeling about Madge's visit on a day like that. She used to come here on Sundays, but this was a long time ago. It was when his family still lived here with him. It was before they abandoned him without an invitation to follow them to town.

He shakes his head as if to clear it from any kind of unwanted thoughts. Even if there had been an invitation, he wouldn't have taken it. Honoring the memory of his father goes against forgetting everything and leaving it behind. Even if it is in his power to sell the bakery or give the enormous house to someone who really needs it, he wants to consider himself incapable of acting this way.

"I didn't come for Katniss, Peeta," she confesses, her voice silent, her look is as if it is pleading with him to listen. But it is his day off; he's not going anywhere.

"Really?"

She nods. "Well, in a way I did come for her."

His eyebrows knit together. "Come in the kitchen. I haven't cooked anything yet."

"Does Katniss eat when you cook?" she asks him suspiciously.

"Wha—are you serious?" She raises an eyebrow as if saying _do I look like I'm kidding? _"I don't know." And this is the truth. The food portions are always larger so that Katniss will have the chance to eat, too, but he hasn't really noticed.

"You should," Madge scolds. "Sometimes, she's too stubborn for her own good." _She might be too stubborn to touch anything you make, as well._

"And that's my fault…how?"

"This!" She points at his chest. His eyes travel lower, landing on his shirt in utter bewilderment. Then, he realizes she's pointing at _him_, not his clothes. "This is what I've wanted to talk to you about," Madge adds.

"Okay," he says, his tone slightly questioning.

"Where do you know each other from?" she demands.

"Nowhere?" He blinks at her.

"Nice try, Peeta. Spill the beans now. Every time I ask Katniss she changes the topic," she exclaims and exhales tiredly.

"Ouch." He covers his ears. "Slow it down." She glares at him. "You've come all the way from town. Eat with me," he suggests.

Her gaze softens for a second. "Alright."

"Any preferences?"

"Spaghetti," she answers confidently, unconsciously moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue.

He chuckles. "Of all the things you could have chosen, you asked for spaghetti," he says in disbelief. She rolls her eyes. "Which will take me no more than ten minutes." He sits across from her.

Madge parts her lips, already feeling as if Peeta is following Katniss's example, avoiding the main issue of the conversation, but he is the one to speak first. Her mouth is closed one more time.

"She might not want to talk to you about it."

"But—"

"—my second year of high school was in town." He pauses, making soon the information sinks in. "I attended the same school as Katniss."

"And?" She sees his reluctant expression. "Oh, come on. There must be something else."

"Why so nosy, Miss Undersee?"

"Because _someone _has to make sure you don't kill each other."

He leans back to his chair surprised. "I think you're exaggerating a bit." He cracks the knuckles of his hands one by one, before he allows himself to sigh, relaxing on his seat. "Katniss and I are doing great."

"Do you believe what you're saying?" She clearly doubts him.

"I do," he says. "She has her space and I have mine. She's helping me by occupying half of the house and taking care of it and I'm helping her by—" He stops for a moment. "I don't know. I want to think I'm somehow returning the favor."

"According to her, you are."

"Then, what's the problem?"

"You would have tried to get along with a person like Katniss two years ago. I mean…she's not that bad, if you get to know her."

What bothers Peeta has nothing to do with Madge asking from him to make the first move. What bothers him is this "two years ago". She can't play with words like these, not when he has struggled to create a shield for the others not to really see what is going on in his head, not when he has finally managed to say he's okay. He can't let her.

"There's not much you can do about it," he says.

"But you can, right?"

"Don't search for something that's already gone. Life changes people." He plays with his fingers. "And sometimes those people don't wish to go back to the way they once were. They refuse to allow others to own them." _They refuse to allow their mothers and brothers own them, to use them and profit from them. _"They want to belong to themselves."

"What happens when they belong to themselves?" He looks up, meeting her eyes. She has obviously decided to play his game. "Do they forget what caring about friends, relatives, or even old classmates is like?"

"They shouldn't." _They shouldn't. _It is a much safer answer than _they don't._

"Do they accept themselves after they change?"

"They learn to do so. It's not easy, but they do."

"Do they do it because they like the way they are or because they have no other choice?"

Peeta sighs. "Latter," he mumbles.

"Then, they haven't really accepted themselves. I hope they do realize we're still talking in third person," she points out.

He gasps furiously. "I'm not in the mood for a fight."

"I'm not looking for a fight, Peeta. I just care about you." She gives him a weak smile.

"Please, don't. You can't—_you can't _do that now. When you called me after all that time…you didn't do it to see how I was. _Okay, _I was fine; I understand why you wouldn't need to do it. But you asking for me to share my home with a girl I barely knew had nothing to do with how much you care about me. The favor was for _her._"

He breathes in and out, waiting for her response, watching her stare back at him, expecting to hear her deny what he accused her of.

"I'm sorry," she says instead.

"Hey," he breathes. "I still love you, you know. You're my little cousin."

"You're barely a year older than me," she complains.

"You will always be my favorite, little cousin." Needless to say, she's his father's niece. The cousins from his mother's side are an entirely different story.

"Try her," Madge urges.

"What?"

"Katniss. Make sure she understands you consider her a person. Show her you trust her. Try her and she'll come around." He nods.

"I should go in a minute," she tells him. He panics a little at the thought of her leaving. He doesn't want to let her go yet.

"You can stay. I haven't even made you your spaghetti."

"It's okay. I can cook when I get home. I'm not that hungry." She stands from the stool. He panics a little more. Human interaction feels better than he can recall. (It's not like he doesn't talk to his customers or employees every day, but this is different. She knows what he has been through, even though at the same time she really _doesn't_.)

"Stay," he nearly begs. "I'm all alone. I have nothing better to do."

He can see in her eyes that she feels bad for him. He does, too.

**.**

**.**

Katniss moans in frustration. She runs her one hand through her tangled hair and proceeds to open one more drawer. She wants to kick the first thing she will find in front of her.

The only thing she needs to do with the freaking spoon is stir her milk. Why can't she remember where Mellark keeps his spoons? How can that be possible after a week and a half of living in this house? And why are there so many drawers?

She just wants to sleep again. Maybe she can do that, if she finds what she's looking for. She is aware a simple object like a spoon can't exactly chase away her nightmares, but if she loses hope, everything will be a lot worse.

Her dreams always start with a car. She's in it, her hands glued to the steering wheel, her feet unable to feel the brake under them. She drives and drives and drives and doesn't know how to stop. Sometimes, she even sees her parents in it. She's not inside, she's not talking to them, but she always finds a way to follow them until the vehicle disappears from her sight or breaks into a million pieces in front of her very eyes.

"Try the third one." His voice catches her off guard, making her jump as she instinctively turns around. She holds a hand to her chest until her breathing becomes less frantic and her heartbeat calms inside her.

How long had he been watching her?

She whispers his name—not the first one that seems too familiar for her to bear—and spots him leaning against the door-frame of the kitchen. She must have been making too much noise, since she would have normally heard him approach. His footsteps are heavy and easily recognizable.

"I…I didn't know. You're usually not here and—I'm just surprised. That's all."

He nods. "Okay."

She doesn't know what else to say. What the heck is wrong with her?

"The third drawer," he says again.

"Right," she mutters. But wait. Which one of the _three _third drawers? (What does the boy keep in all twelve of them?)

"The other side," he advises when he notices where she's looking at. She follows his instructions and finds what she needs along with several knives and forks.

"Thanks," she says. "I added honey. I need to…" She trails off, but makes a repetitive circular motion with her hand, hoping to enlighten him about what she might be doing fifteen minutes past midnight.

"Stir it," he finishes for her.

"It will only take a minute," she promises, quickly averting her gaze from his, before the spoon sinks in the lukewarm water.

"You don't have to leave." She freezes. There is no wonder she's not okay. She thinks she just heard him say, "You don't have to leave because of me. The house is yours, too."

"I was going anyway. I'll give you time to do—whatever." She risks stealing a glance at him. He looks amused, which makes her feel even more humiliated than before.

"Couldn't sleep?" he guesses.

"No," she admits. She considers adding something else, but soon realizes she is not obliged to offer any kind of explanations. She usually likes to talk about her nightmares, though, the only person she really dares to say everything to is her sister, Prim. She is the only one who truly understands her. The words of comfort after a nightmare have nothing to do with sympathy, but pain. Primrose is hurt, too.

"Do you want to talk?" he offers. She snaps her head to her right. _To you? About what?_

"Not really," she answers honestly.

"Madge thinks our distance is not normal," he blurts out. It looks like he has different plans than Katniss, regardless her opinion.

"I know," she tells him. "She told me."

"Oh," is the only thing he says in return.

"I beg to differ. Don't _you _set the rules in your life? Don't _you_know what you want to consider normal and what not?"

"Yeah, but…" She takes the steaming cup in her hand. She walks closer to him—or rather closer to the outlet. She should be out of here. "Katniss," he calls.

"Mellark," she mimics his tone, raising both of her eyebrows.

"I've thought about what she said."

"You didn't need to. It doesn't change anything." She shrugs. Once she notices his troubled expression, however, she is tempted to stay for a little longer, just to see what all this is about.

"Well…" He grimaces slightly, nervously rubbing the back of his neck with his one hand. "I kind of wanted to make a start. We can be—"

"—friends?" she completes his sentence incredulously.

"I was going to say on talking terms. But anything would be fine." He drops his hand back to his one side and tries to smile. (He fails.)

She sighs. They're not even on first name basis—he still calls her Katniss, but she can't call him Peeta. It's too _friendly. _How the heck are they going to be _talking buddies_?

"Talking terms sounds…" She hesitates. Good? Fine? Okay? "…acceptable," she finishes. He nods. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight." She heads for the doorframe he had been supporting his weight on earlier and keeps walking until she reaches the darkness out of the kitchen.

That was…weird, but also pretty interesting.

"Hey, Katniss?" She turns around to look at him. She's sure he can't see her very well from where he's standing, since the light of the room barely illuminates her slim form, but she's still thankful for it.

"Yeah?"

"That day in high school…" He is going too far.

"Forget it. Maybe some other day, but I can't talk about it now."

"Some other day, then."

"Thanks." She has thanked him twice in less than ten minutes.

"I'll cook lunch tomorrow. I'll be in the bakery when you come back from work, but I'll have food for you, too." He pauses. "Okay?"

Huh?

"Okay." She's sure she can figure it out tomorrow.

* * *

**December, Week Four**

The house in Twelve is empty on Christmas Eve.

After getting used to spending her holidays with her whole family, Katniss refuses to stay there all alone. Peeta had made sure to inform her he would be absent on the twenty-fifth of December and the day before that—she remembers him engaging her into a brief conversation about one of his employees, Vick.

She can already feel this year will be much different. Prim's break has started and, for some reason, Katniss believes inviting her in her new home is not one of the greatest ideas. Instead, the sisters end up staying at Madge's, much to the girl's pleasure.

Prim's persistence to decorate the place isn't utterly neglected. (She and her mother used to do that every single year until now, as Katniss preferred to just watch them.) Madge eventually has no choice but to give in, while Katniss agrees for no other reason than to keep her hands as busy as possible.

They find themselves in Madge's bedroom (they would have to dedicate _hours _to take care of every room, so they don't bother to focus on anywhere else) at around seven in the evening, listening to Primrose as she chatters about how the Christmas spirit is gone and how they have to bring it back, somehow. (If Katniss didn't already adore her sister, she would consider her attitude not only bizarre, but also nearly unbearable. But she _knows_. She knows that, unlike her, Prim doesn't get completely and utterly lost in work. She doesn't try to be _perfect_—she accepts herself even when her cons sometimes outweigh her pros. She understands her parents wouldn't want their daughters to mourn them, not anymore. All this is what Katniss can't always fully comprehend. Though, her sister's happy words are probably what she needs to hear right now.)

They carry an average-sized green tree, the smallest one in the house, before they spend a good couple of hours searching for what to use to decorate it as well as the rest of the room. Katniss notices how each one of them deliberately lingers on the most meaningless details. She notices how Prim's fingers tangle with the golden ribbons in her lap or how Madge mutters several incoherent phrases to herself, insisting on keeping the colourful lights all over her small balcony. At some point, when her sister argues that in reality the mistletoe should be yellow instead of red, Katniss joins the conversation as well.

She learns about Prim's stay at her dormitory in college and realizes that when she's asked about her opinion on the matter "Peeta Mellark", her words are nothing but a combination of mumbled complaints and rushed explanations. Prim _of course _remembers the kind, outgoing boy from their first grade of high school—Katniss has to hear about how nice he was for ten excruciatingly long minutes from both her and her best friend—and _giggles_. The sound of her small laugh still hasn't changed. The brunette is almost jealous of her—she wishes she could laugh, too.

Katniss is also pretty surprised at the news of Prim sharing a desk with a boy. Madge smiles knowingly every time she hears Rory _did this _and Rory _did that _and Rory _said he's from Twelve _and _Rory keeps Rue and me company after classes_.

They barely sleep that night. (Madge offers them a room and they share the bed like they used to do when they were little.) It is the only time of the day when Prim lets Katniss—and only Katniss—see how much her parents' car accident has affected her. It's been five whole months since then, but her death grip on Katniss's hand betrays her fears.

Her blue eyes glister in the darkness.

_Don't leave like they did._

Katniss squeezes her fingers in reassurance.

_I won't._

"Once you get home and the time for my second break comes, expect a visit from me," Prim says in the end. "I really want to meet your roommate."

Katniss can hear the smile in her voice. She rolls her eyes and lets out a snort. This is what _only Prim _would say.

She can only imagine Christmas will be as quiet as today was.

* * *

**January, Week Two**

She and Mellark soon develop an unusual, yet particularly comfortable routine. They take turns when it comes to cooking, cleaning, as well as taking care of the rest of the house chores. Katniss already knows the quality of the food can be really awful on Wednesdays (this and some Sundays are the only days of the week she's not working at Sae's farm), but Peeta doesn't utter a single word about her atrocious cooking skills nevertheless. They never eat together. He informs her every time he leaves or gets in the house and she starts working on actually greeting him in the mornings. (They both have to be early risers whether they want it or not. He has the bakery, she has Sae.)

One day, however—Sunday to be exact—, the convenient, safe routine is broken. Katniss descends the stairs as she thinks of how much she wants to spend the rest of her day in the library, the sound of her feet echoing in the silence of the hallway as she jumps on the thick carpet.

She stands still for a moment. She almost thinks she can hear—_yes, _this is what she hears; laughter.

She has never heard Peeta laugh before. It is not like she can't understand him—there has been nothing important enough for him to laugh at so far.

She enters the living room, just to stop dead on her tracks moments later. She flinches. She doesn't like seeing new faces when they look back at her. And this is exactly what the tall—unknown to her—boy is doing at the moment. His skin is tanned in contrast to Peeta's, his hair a dark brown color—almost black.

Her eyes grow wide as if she is caught doing something she shouldn't have been doing, while nothing is heard anymore.

"Hey," Peeta greets her.

"Hi," she greets back shyly. She tries her best not to let her gaze focus on the stranger, even though she can feel his piercing stare on her.

An unfamiliar silence stretches out and Katniss is soon threatened to be overcome by the fear of being engulfed in it. Moments later, though, she realizes she would have preferred the lack of words to having the opportunity to hear Peeta's visitor talk.

"You should have told me you had company," he says to Peeta. Katniss finally risks another glance at them, knowing the conversation is between the two of them. She's wrong.

"Gale," Mellark starts. She guesses this his friend's—is he a friend?—name. "Have you been paying attention to _anything _I may have told you? This is Katniss."

Gale's moves are quick. He approaches her before she has the chance to take any steps backwards.

"Gale Hawthorne," he introduces himself and extends a hand for her to take and, consequently, shake. She scowls at it, already aware of the fact that the simple gesture will change nothing but the stranger's opinion for her. Better yet, it will help him form one—Katniss anticipates the moment when he realizes she's not worthy of either his time or his attention.

To her utter surprise, he smirks. He doesn't move from right in front of her, which does nothing but increase her new-found desire to flee the room as soon as possible.

"She's different, isn't she? Catnip's nothing like the Glitter girl," he states, the amusement clear in his hazel eyes.

"It's _Katniss_," she corrects him. She can't comprehend Mellark's look of uneasiness. What's wrong with her being compared to this Glitter girl? (She doesn't like being compared to anyone, but she still doesn't understand why Mellark would care so much.)

"Uh…Gale, that's my roommate. I've had a roommate for over a month, remember?" He huffs. "Of course you don't."

"Hey, can you blame me?" Hawthorne instantly appears to be defensive. He eventually moves away from Katniss. "You wouldn't answer your darn phone."

"I've had a roommate before," Peeta points out. "It's not a big deal."

The whole acting-like-Katniss-is-not-in-the-room thing has started to unnerve her. She crosses her arms in front of her chest and taps her foot on the floor. She is not taken aback when she hears no sound from this move of hers—the soft thump of her sock against the floor is nearly inaudible.

The two friends keep bickering like old ladies until she decides she has better things to do than standing there and watching them.

"Don't forget it's your turn to clean the house today," she reminds Mellark.

'The house' consists of the first floor and the library, since they have agreed to share the second floor's chores. She takes the one half of it and he takes the other half—each one's bedroom and bathroom included

"What? This week is yours!" he protests.

"But I cleaned it last week," she counters.

"You _volunteered _to clean it last week."

"That makes no difference. It's your turn."

"I have company."

"I can call Madge. Then, I'll have company, too."

"I have an idea," Gale announces. They turn to look at him. "Why don't you clean it together?" he says. They sneer at both him and his ridiculous suggestion. They are clearly on talking terms. Hanging around with each other is an entirely different story for Katniss. She wants to hope Mellark won't be asking much from her, either.

"No, thanks, Hawthorne."

"It's _Gale_," he corrects her, mimicking her tone from before. "And I'm also sorry to tell you that you will have to clean the house by yourself. _He_—" he points at Peeta, "—has agreed to let me beat him at basketball."

"We'll see about that."

"We'll see about that indeed, Mellark," Katniss says.

He frowns. "Will it hurt you to call me by my first name?"

"Maybe," she says in mock seriousness. "I'm calling, Madge." _Just for good measure._

"Wait a minute," he asks. She does. "Do you play basketball?"

She hesitates. "Yeah," she admits. "Why?"

He looks satisfied. "Call Madge. I have an idea." He looks confident.

**.**

**.**

_He was a little too confident, _Katniss realizes. He underestimated her and his friend—even though she and Gale were forced to become a team, she thinks she can get used to his careless spirit and forwardness—and ended up with a familiar grimace on his face.

Peeta Mellark rarely lets anyone see this grimace, but when he does, Katniss has to admit she feels as if she appreciates it. It makes him human and real. The careful glances and half-smiles he has been giving her since they agreed to talk like proper roommates seemed all strange, forced and fake. He is too polite for her taste—why can't he just fight her so she can fight back?—, too good to be the fifteen-year-old boy she remembers from high school. But then again, is what she remembers correct?

The faint rays of the sun are soothing against her skin, yet the soft breeze doesn't cease to make her shudder. She can feel beads of sweat collecting on her forehead, under the layers of clothes, on the back of her neck. She's cold from just standing on the backyard's small basketball court and hot by running nonstop.

Mellark groans in his hands. His head is bowed, buried in his palms, while his back is firmly pressed against the column of the basketball net.

"It looks like Catnip's not so bad, huh?"

Katniss ignores the fact that Hawthorne deliberately got her name wrong again. "You're not so bad yourself." This, coming out of her mouth, is supposed to be a huge compliment.

"I hate basketball," Madge declares. "I bet Peeta does now, too."

He lifts his gaze, letting his hands fall back down and gives her a look full of query. Katniss wonders whether he has forgotten the whole of this game already. But he couldn't possibly have. _He _was the one to suggest it. _He _was the one to take Madge in his team. _He _was the one who lost.

Katniss feels as if she has accomplished something important. She knows she has ensured herself a quiet day in the library and that's enough for now—after he cleans that room, of course.

She grins at him widely, triumphantly.

"I guess we know who has to do the chores now," she says, her tone slightly provoking him, challenging him. She expects to hear a clever, almost cruel repartee.

What she gets in return has nothing to do with her expectations, though. It's a smile; boyish, welcoming, heartwarming. She decides that if she appreciates his frowns, then she _likes_ his smiles. The real ones.


	2. Two: February

**Thank you to **TheAfterShock** for their assistance/beta-ing as well as everyone who has taken the time to review/subscribe/favorite this story. It means a great deal!**

Notes: 

_#1 after I sent the previews of this chapter, I got the impression they were a bit short. Since the chapters for this story will be long (each one close to 10k words), I've thought that **longer sneak peeks** won't hurt anyone, either (the offer still stands—**review=preview**). Thoughts? Which is the length you prefer?_

_#2 there would be one more scene in this chapter (Prim's appearance), but it turned out to be quite unfitting. I hope you're all alright with waiting for chapter three. A lot happens in that one._

_#3 if you have questions about "Roommates", typing them in a review/PM would help _a lot_. Some of you have made some interesting observations and I'd like to address them in a __**FAQ**__. __**Ask anything**__ you want to know—from the plot to my way(s) of organizing a chapter._

Replies to anonymous reviews:

**rochay97: **I really wanted to thank you for your kind words and send you a preview, but you've disabled PMs. So...thank you a lot!

**Guest: **Thanks. It helps to hear there were authors/people who liked the start of my story.

Words: **10,568 **(Normal word limits: 8,000-14,000)

Disclaimer: _You all know what I own and what I don't. Unfortunately, forgetting to add a disclaimer is considered a violation of FFNet's rules. _

Update: _30.09.2012_

* * *

**Two: February**

**February, Week One**

It is one of _those _days; the days when she finds it impossible to welcome the rays of the morning sun, when she feels lifeless and completely disoriented, when she reluctantly allows her sorrow, which sometimes threatens to shake her to the core, to consume her, when she simply _can't move_.

Such days are uncommon and rare for Katniss, yet existent and torturous. She can't find a good enough way—or a good enough reason for that matter—to remove the heavy duvet from her body, can't remember what day it is or where she is, can't wrap her head around anything other than how _alone _she truly is. She forgets about everyone and everything (Prim can't always help her because she can't always know when something is wrong) and refuses to be reasonable. (The word loses its meaning way too easily for her once her eyes make the decision to stay shut.)

Somewhere in the distance, a constant beeping sound is heard. A sound that would have her flying out of bed, urging her to make the required preparations for work, under normal circumstances.

She manages to recall how her alarm clock works and reaches to her left, her palm flat against the surface of the nightstand, her fingers numbly searching for the electronic device. Every alarm clock is equipped with a snooze button and this one is no exception.

When her purpose is fulfilled, she sinks as deep in the mattress as she can. She hugs her pillow, burying her face in it and breathes out what she originally thought to be relief.

But it's not. The weight she feels on her chest is still there and her stomach still hurts from a pain she is incapable of naming. She waits for a few moments, hoping the tears will finally come. They don't—they never do. Katniss can't ever cry like normal people do and it _kills _her.

The alarm doesn't ring again, and if it does, she can't hear it. She sinks into a dreamless sleep for the umpteenth time today.

**.**

**.**

At first, Peeta is convinced there is something wrong with his mobile.

He never expected Katniss's absence from the kitchen would be so upsetting, so unsettling for him. Though, he knows the main reason why he actually notices she's not here, walking anxiously in front of him with her braid swinging behind her back, getting ready to be out of the house some minutes before him (she heads for the farm at around five-thirty—he never worked at Sae's, so he was more than just surprised the first time he saw her up so early) is because of how used to each other they've grown in only two months. He can't always read her expressions, but she still thinks so _loud _and so much. Instead of feeling unnerved, he feels undeniably consoled. Maybe he's not the only one who worries so much about pointless things, after all.

He can't help wondering whether it's Wednesday, one of her days off. He checks the calendar of his cell phone one more time, noting how the word _Thursday _stares back at him.

He takes a sip of his water, gently placing what he's holding back on the counter. His brows furrow on their own accord, while a frown is formed, his facial features slightly distorting.

It takes a while for the thought to appear inside his head, and when it does, the grimace deepens.

_Maybe there's nothing wrong with his phone. Maybe there's something wrong with _her. Perhaps Greasy Sae has decided to be easy on her—maybe Katniss is not needed at the farm today.

He isn't aware _why_, but he feels as if he has to confirm his assumptions. He has to hear that she is here or that she has already left the house—before he would have the chance to meet with her.

The cell phone is back in his hands, his fingers quickly searching for the number he hasn't made any efforts to memorize yet. He turns around with an abrupt motion, hitting his calf on one of the drawers' handles in the process of waiting for Madge to answer her phone.

Her drowsy and hoarse from sleep voice comes several seconds later, making Peeta's catch in his throat from the sudden realization of what time it _really _is.

"_Hello_?" It is barely heard, but is enough to increase the guilty feeling as it creeps its way to Peeta's gut.

"H-hey," he starts timidly. "Madge, it's me. It's—"

"—_Peeta, I know. I have your number_." She pauses and he suddenly doesn't know how to continue. "_What happened_?" she encourages.

"Uh…" He scratches the back of his head absent mindedly. "Sorry for calling. And sorry for waking you up—I totally lost track of time. I completely forgot and I haven't looked outside to see how dark it is yet." He speaks so quickly and hurriedly that he has to calm his breathing from the moment he hears his cousin's shushing sound of reassurance.

"_What happened_?" she repeats.

"Are you going to come by later today?" he asks curiously, in fear of overreacting.

"_No, I wasn't planning to_," she replies, clearly baffled by his all too strange behavior. "_You're both working today_." Her tone is slightly questioning as she pronounces the last sentence.

"So, Katniss has to be at work today?"

There is more silence on the other end of the line. It is broken when an odd noise is heard from Madge, which sounds as if it is a muffled yawn. "_That's what I just said_."

"Oh," he tells her carefully. "Alright."

"_Alright_?" she echoes incredulously. He begins to nod, although he soon stops himself, realizing it's absolutely no use. It's not like she can see him.

"Well…"

"_Peeta, you can't have called me at half past five in the morning to hear about Katniss's schedule_," she says in a matter-of-fact tone.

He flinches. "Sorry," he tells her again. "I just don't think she's awake yet. She usually is—that's all."

"_Wait, wait, wait_." He raises a questioning eyebrow at her request, but eventually obliges. "_Are you sure she's still sleeping_?"

"Not really. I assumed she's in her room. I can't exactly get in there," he explains. "I wouldn't know for sure," he adds.

"_Uhm_," she trails off, before she keeps going. "_Tell you what. I'll let you know, if she doesn't answer her phone. It's not the first time this has happened_." The statement catches Peeta off guard. The main reason why he has no clue how he should reply to Madge's words or how to react in general concerns the fact that he doesn't even know what his cousin is referring to.

"_The last time was two months ago_," she informs him. "_It didn't end so nicely. She kind of lost her job_."

"Wha—what are you talking about?" Katniss never told him why she was fired, although he has already decided not to blame her. This sort of conversations is too personal—none of them has reached the point of sharing significant facts with the other. (He can say he's convinced there is anything but a great possibility of it happening in the near future.)

Madge's huff is barely heard. "_If I consider it essential you get in her room, then you'll do it_." It is neither a question nor a request. Her tone is more demanding that he remembers it to be, a newfound exigency hidden behind it. "_I can't drive there in less than forty minutes_."

"Okay," he whispers. She hangs up almost immediately after she makes sure his agreement is heard.

**.**

**.**

He feels as if terror—_his _terror—is about to engulf him. The pace of his heartbeat quickens as the seconds pass agonizingly slow—and yet awfully _quick _to the point of being incapable of doing anything to help—for him. The pupils of his eyes dilate in what can only be anxiousness.

His right palm curls around her shoulder as he applies more pressure on her skinny arm than he normally would. He shakes her one more time, his urgency increasing.

"Katniss?" he calls, waiting for a reply, expecting the sound of it to calm him, soothe him, automatically erase any kind of pointless worries.

But she remains unresponsive. His brain is suddenly forced to reluctantly welcome images he never wishes to see—or maybe even live—again, images of his father languishing, losing every single trace of strength he had left, being at the death's door for so long, and yet refusing to let go of his family. Because when surviving the deadly illness, which weakened him more and more as the days passed, appeared to be impossible for his old man, and Peeta would jolt him (ignoring the nurses' shrieks of protest as well as the beeping sounds of the machines piercing his ears), Mr. Mellark wouldn't answer. He wouldn't talk to his youngest son.

(Peeta was the only one who wept when his father died. It was the only day his brothers didn't dare to call him weak for being the 'family's baby' and it was the only day his mother allowed him to see how worn out and _human _she really was. It took her forty-eight whole hours to go back to the woman she truly is. Her husband had left the bakery and all its issues and responsibilities to Peeta and this action of his drove her completely _mad_. She simply couldn't approve of the way Peeta's father used to think and therefore work. However, in the end it had become apparent that if one of the Mellark boys ever dedicated his life to the family's business without seeking for an easy alternative, it would be the youngest one.)

The curtains are soon pulled forcefully aside, letting the faint light enter. The sun hasn't risen yet, but the move is enough for him to be able to distinguish her facial features.

Once he faces her for a second time, he gasps. Her staying as passive as he has ever seen her is not what scares him so much. What terrifies him—petrifies even—is her eyes.

He shudders as he steps closer, kneeling to the floor beside her, attempting to connect his gaze with hers. What he receives in return is nothing—absolutely nothing. She stares at the ceiling as if she's dead, the dull color in her grey irises doing anything but colliding with the troubled blue of his own.

He calls her name one more time, even though he knows the results will not be any different. His hand falls on the mattress while he gives it a persistent look, in fear of scaring her now he knows she's awake.

"What's going on?" he wonders out loud. The question is addressed more at himself than her, although he still wants to hear the answer.

"Katniss, you have work," he reminds her, the volume of his voice rising a tad bit more than before. He touches her shoulder again. "Come on," he encourages. His other hand moves to her cheek, turning her towards him so his face will not be out of her eyesight anymore. "You have to get up."

He meets her eyes, even when he realizes they are far too vacant for her to return the concerned glance. He squeezes her fingers, even when he realizes they are far too numb for her to return the gesture. He is positive that any other morning, she'd be yelling at him to leave her personal space, pushing him away from her. (Jumping to conclusions isn't what he believes Katniss would appreciate, but he hasn't seen anything other than this aggressive as well as somehow antisocial side of hers. He is in no place to judge, since in reality he admires her determination and stubbornness. She hasn't let herself or her sister down.)

Something manages to catch his attention and he instantly tenses; a movement from Katniss. A violent shiver shakes her form and brings her back to life. It is as if she has come back from a different world—a world she has created, in which no one is allowed to play a role for her sake.

Her eyes squint instead of narrowing at him until they're utterly closed. He makes the mistake of moving his thumb over the back of her palm (it is too soon for such a move on his or her part—they're not even friends), before she withdraws her hand from his in a sharp and violent motion. He is, at least, relieved to know the Katniss he has been familiar with all this time is not absent.

Peeta nervously clears his throat, supporting his weight on the palm he places on the furniture beside her bed, and stands on his feet. He purposefully retreats a step.

"Katniss, it's late," he states, not knowing what else he could do to get her to talk to him. "You're going to be late. Sae will be waiting for you."

She turns her head away from him, eyes still shut. When he's about to think he will have to do something drastic for her to compromise, she startles him by voicing the first question that probably crosses her mind at this very moment.

"What time is it?" she asks.

He shouldn't be here, watching this, watching her being more vulnerable than she'd wish him to ever see her. He, however, feels this need to help without caring about her paying him back, just like he used to do when he was younger. He could consider himself selfless back then.

Thus, he replies to her question, and watches her eyes grow large as she slowly starts getting a better grip on reality. She throws the covers off her body, not being bothered by Peeta's presence in her room and acting as if she hadn't noticed him seconds ago. She bolts from where she's standing, almost tripping by a sheet which is tangled around her right ankle.

It turns out he can do nothing more than what he has already done. His eyes widen at their own accord, like Katniss's, his mouth suddenly agape.

He isn't used to being as speechless as he is now, so it takes him a while to recover. He shoots a last glance at the unmade bed, before he follows the way she did, calling her name in the process.

Maybe there is something he can do for her, after all.

"Hold on!" he says.

**.**

**.**

"Get on, Katniss," he insists. She hears him sigh and feels his intense stare on her face as she persistently shakes her head in refusal, looking at the ground and chewing on her bottom lip, her teeth adding more pressure than necessary.

She doesn't understand why he's still here, preventing her from doing what she has in mind (running to Sae's farm because she's _late_—it takes her half an hour to arrive on foot and it's already a quarter to six), when he should be at his bakery. He opens his store some minutes after seven in the morning, but is there at least an hour and a half before he welcomes his customers.

"I can walk," she assures him.

"I know you can walk. But if you can be there in ten minutes instead of thirty, why can't you reconsider?" he wonders.

"Because…" Does she really want to tell him _why_? This is one of the rhetorical questions that keep running inside Katniss's head daily, but she tells herself what she wants to be reminded of, anyway; the answer is _no_. "_Because_," she ends up snapping.

She risks lifting her gaze, realizing he hasn't removed his yet. He extends both of his hands, offering her the helmet placed firmly in-between them. She clutches her father's brown leather bag closer to her chest, keeping her arms occupied.

"I'll be fine."

"You'll be late."

"You'll be, too, if you don't leave."

He turns to his left, patting the space behind him on the vehicle, beckoning her to make herself comfortable. "Get on the bike."

"I don't like bikes," she explains. _I'm afraid of bikes_.

"You'll be wearing this, too," he reasons, raising the helmet higher for her to notice. She hugs the bag a little tighter, considering her choices. She can either do as he says and get to work in time or be no less than fifteen minutes late.

The image of the route to Greasy Sae's farm flashes in her mind. No accident could happen there, for the road is more than just safe. All she needs to do is swallow her fear—her absolutely ridiculous bias—and accept his suggestion. There's nothing for her to lose.

"Don't ride it too fast, okay, Peeta?" She feels so small, it's mortifying. She notices this is the first time she has called him by his first name.

His lips curl upwards, forming a wry half-smile. "Okay," he promises, slowly bobbing his head for confirmation.

She takes the place he showed her behind him, her front firmly pressed against his back, her arms shakily snaking around his waist until the fingers of both of her hands are tangled in front of his abdomen. She closes her eyes, deeply exhaling, preparing herself for their departure. Her eagerness to welcome the darkness behind her eyelids contributes to her missing several details, such as the sight of the blond strands of hair on his head instead of the protective helmet. Once she is aware there is a slightly bigger possibility of him getting hurt, though, she also knows she is too selfish to leave _her _head uncovered.

At some point, Katniss touches her cheek against the material of his thick jacket, tightening her inevitable embrace. She's afraid that the pressure and force she puts on his ribs might knock the breath out of his lungs.

When they finally arrive at where she has to work, she feels so nauseous that she can't even tell where she is or why Mellark has stopped.

"Katniss." He steps on the ground with his one foot, balancing himself on the bike. His one palm moves to cover her hands, parting her entwined fingers one by one. "We're here," he announces. The smile drops from his face by the time he feels her trembling, yet remaining still.

The vehicle leans towards the one side and Katniss is forced to get off it, stumbling on the muddy ground. Her knees involuntarily buckle, while she tries to clear her blurry vision. Fingers lock securely around her forearm, keeping her from collapsing and therefore becoming one with the ground.

"Are you all right?" he hisses in her ear, holding her some inches away from him, trying to measure her reaction.

She blinks several times and manages to nod in response. "Yeah," she tells him. "Just a bit dizzy." She steps backwards, giving him the space he probably needs right now.

"Are you…" he starts questioning her, but hesitates and eventually looks as if he regrets it. He shakes his head, clearing it from whatever he's thinking. His eyes land on the helmet that's still around her scalp. "Do you need help with it?"

Katniss touches the plastic on her head, realizing what he's talking about. "Oh, right." She mutters a soft, quick apology and fights with the straps of what he gave her, before she hands it to him, making it clear his assistance is neither required nor needed.

"Thanks, Mellark," she mumbles.

He shrugs, making it obvious he doesn't believe his offer to be such a big deal. "Will you be okay? I mean… I don't know what all this was about… but if you need me to pick you up later or…"

"No." She presses her lips tightly together. "I'll be fine."

"Sure," he replies. "See you at home, then."

She watches him leave as she whispers, "See you." She turns around and walks down the familiar path leading to the stall of Sae's farm (there is not much she can do at the fields anyway—the harvest season ends at the end of October). The lady greets Katniss with a polite nod of her head, like she always does, and keeps her aware of what she has to work on for today. She promises to share a considerable portion of her—or rather her family's—lunch with the girl in case she stays there for longer than intended. (Katniss makes a mental note to herself to decline as kindly as possible, if the woman keeps her word. She isn't sure whether she's ready to receive more than what her employer pays her.)

When Greasy Sae's about to let her take care of the animals that haven't even been fed yet, she stops right before she approaches the outlet. "I admire your judgment, girl." Katniss shoots her a glance full of query, but gets nothing but a sly wink in return. "The baker's got a golden heart. I send my son for fresh bread every morning." Katniss opens her mouth to object, saying he's just her roommate and not what Sae thinks he is to her (_if _Sae thinks he's her friend or more than a friend). The next words prevent her from doing so, though. "Poor kid lost his father a couple of years ago."

And Katniss is left with her thoughts—alone.

Peeta's father is _dead_? Why hasn't he or Madge ever told her anything about it? How did he lose him? Was it sudden like her parents' case or was it slow like the way cancer patients die?

She _thinks_ until it's time for her to continue with her work—in reality, she _thinks_ until she creeps herself out.

**.**

**.**

By the time Katniss arrives home, the sky has started getting dark again. She knows it is not that late, even though she'd prefer to be here sooner, when the light of the sun wouldn't be almost gone. But the most unpleasant of all facts is not this.

Someone—someone with straight blonde hair falling evenly to her back—is standing right in front of Peeta Mellark's—and maybe hers, too—door. Katniss halts, gently biting the inside of her cheek as she attempts to decide who on earth her roommate might have called, and observes the woman's movements.

Katniss's footsteps are way too silent to be heard, so the girl doesn't seem to notice when the brunette goes even closer. Instead, she examines her perfectly polished nails, looking at the door every one in a while without bothering to knock.

Katniss arches an eyebrow and moves her fist in front of her lips, clearing her throat just to make her presence known. The blonde reacts almost immediately by turning her head towards Katniss's direction in a sharp motion, her hair slapping a great part of her face. It is a face Katniss wished she'd never have to see after high school was over.

_What the heck is Glimmer Templesmith doing here?_

"Can I help you with anything?" she asks instead, clenching and unclenching her fists so as to avoid gritting her teeth and making the extent of her displeasure clear.

Surprised by the sound of Katniss's voice, the blonde blanches. Seconds later, the recognition that flashes in her emerald eyes is replaced by a hint of both disapproval and disgruntlement.

"What would you be doing here, Everdeen?" she demands. _Well, hello to you, too_, Katniss responds in her head. Stooping so low, however, is not precisely a solution. Getting over the insignificant, trivial problems she had with her female classmates during puberty is one of the compromises she has settled for—one of the things she has promised to herself.

"I should ask you the same question, Glimmer."

Glimmer folds her arms over her chest, not bothering to hide her all-too-familiar frown now there's no one to really see and be appalled by it. But there's nothing for her to do to repulse others—not when she's so _fake_. (Glimmer's natural hair color could be darker than Katniss's, who sometimes in the past wondered whether the former's body shape is truly _hers_. The only real thing must be her eyes.)

"I'm actually looking for Peeta." _Peeta, not Peeta Mellark, _Katniss notes. The informality she uses to address him increases her curiosity enough to suppress her sudden urge to push the unexpected visitor aside and storm in the house, slamming the door shut behind her.

"He's not here at the moment," Katniss ends up replying coolly. She reluctantly takes some steps closer to the main entrance.

"I can see that." Glimmer has become irritated—if Katniss annoys her enough, she's positive she will ensure herself a headache that will last for the next six hours.

"Would you like me to tell him anything?" Katniss suggests, pulling her lip with her teeth to restraint. She knows making her amusement evident is both improper and childish.

"How would _you _tell him anything?"

"Uhm," she huffs. How difficult can transferring a message from her to Peeta be? She asks herself several questions concerning what Glimmer should mean, before she finally achieves to recognize the possessiveness in her tone. It's the same voice spoiled children use when they want to claim something—an object—as theirs. It is _theirs _and _nobody _else's.

"Why don't you come back tomorrow evening? I'd let you in the house, but…" _Liar_. If someone ever let Glimmer in, that would be Peeta and he's not even present. "…I'm pretty busy tonight," she finishes her sentence.

Katniss wants to show her she lives here—she wants to prove it to her. But opening the door means extracting the key from its place and she can't exactly afford worrying about the blonde's future inquisitive glances as she brings her grandmother's locket to sight. This bizarre, yet familiar ritual is completely and utterly personal.

On the other hand, there seems to be absolutely no way for her to act as if the house belongs to her. (It partly does, right? It must be the first time she properly admits the fact to herself.)

"What are you talking about?" Templesmith has apparently started losing her precious patience.

Katniss sighs. "Mel—Peeta's my roommate. Now, if you please—"

"—your _what_?" She seems stunned by the confession. Katniss, though, feels as if she owes no more explanations.

"Come and find him some other time, would you?" she commands. And with that, she drapes the single strap of the bag over her shoulder, lowers the zip of her jacket and tightens her grip around the silver chain she manages to dig out of her sweater, pulling it over her head. Glimmer stumbles backwards, while Katniss feels eyes piercing the back of her skull. She can't wait until the moment when she finds herself under the shower, forgetting the short-lived incident for good.

The key does its job just fine, as Katniss leaves Glimmer at the doorstep, barely muttering a "_goodbye_" under her breath.

Everything is just like she expected—well, almost everything. She climbs the stairs as fast as she can, throws her nearly empty bag—her key, too—on the bed right when she enters her room and searches for clean clothes to change after she'll emerge from her long (she wants to believe there will be no interruptions) shower.

What takes her by surprise concerns Greasy Sae and her words about Peeta's past.

_Poor kid lost his father a couple of years ago._

When she saw him for the first time after four years, she thought she knew him. She was wrong. She knows nothing.

**.**

**.**

Three quarters of an hour later, voices from the distance lead Katniss out of her room's comfort. After she locates them (she thinks they are coming from the hallway), she decides to be less indiscreet and make her way towards the kitchen. She can say she's curious enough not to stay out of earshot, even though her curiosity has nothing to do with interfering with Peeta's issues. Glimmer's screech could be distinguished anytime and anywhere.

How the girl has been out of the house for all this time without experiencing one of her serious, unnerving mood swings is beyond Katniss's knowledge. Peeta, however, seems to be reluctant to welcome her inside (why else would he keep her out there for so long?) and Katniss mentally expresses her gratification for the fact that she won't need to face her.

Once again, she is wrong.

There is no better reason to flee this place than Glimmer's look of satisfaction as she steps foot in the kitchen. Katniss's eyebrows threaten to arch over her forehead, since Glimmer's displeasure about such a room isn't lost to her. (That girl is made for large salons, buffets and banquets, where the center of attention will be her and her only.)

Suddenly, it is like Peeta has ensured himself a new tail. Katniss doesn't know whether to be amused by the way he zigzags in the place, miserably failing at hiding his despair, or be sympathetic at how she was in his shoes some minutes ago.

He eventually spots her and forces a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. This time, she has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing out loud. "Hey, Katniss." The exasperation, which is more likely not directed at her, doesn't go unnoticed by her. Even Glimmer pretends not to have heard how his voice cracked in the end.

Katniss offers a small wave in return, in fear of saying something she probably shouldn't. She's afraid that if she opens her mouth, she won't be able to take back what piece of truth comes out of it.

He lets out a shaky exhale. "Glimmer," he addresses the blonde. "You can wait for me in the living room," he suggests.

"It's alright, Peet. I can keep you company," she says a little too willingly, pulling a chair and pinning her bottom stubbornly on it.

_Peet? _Seriously?

"I've been living alone for a long time, Glimmer," he tells—or maybe reminds—her. "Just go there and I'll make you something to drink."

She stands from her seat and lifts her head proudly. "Fine," she agrees. "Add a lot of sugar to whatever you make," she requires, before she turns around and exits the room, her heels clicking on the floor until her feet meet the carpet.

"Add a lot of sugar to whatever you make," Peeta repeats, mimicking her voice, scrunching his nose when he's positive he's out of Glimmer's earshot. "She hasn't changed one bit."

"No, she hasn't," Katniss muses.

Peeta looks at her in disbelief. "You know her?" he asks.

"I wish I didn't," she replies. "She'd been my classmate since the first grade of middle school," she explains, then.

He nods, understanding, and moves a desperate hand to his forehead, pushing the blonde hair away from it.

"How was your day?" he asks out of the blue. He looks around, his gaze eventually landing on the cupboards, probably trying to come up with a way to please his guest. He notices how Katniss lets her facial expression transform into a deep frown, doubting the real question—or rather suspecting an ulterior motive behind it.

"What?" he asks again. He shrugs. "I was only trying to make conversation."

She's aware he hasn't asked her about her day or her job before. She could also say she'd been surprised he decided to make that particular move this day, at this moment, but interaction with sane people (who have suffered enough to remain sane) is needed every once in a while. She knows that from experience. She knows how every time a crazy, persistent customer entered Snow's grocery store, she felt like she just _had_ to call her sister—hear her familiar voice, accept them comfort Prim could only give.

She shakes her head as if to clear it from any kind of what she believes to be unhelpful thoughts.

She realizes she probably took long—too long—to reply. "It was fine," she answers honestly with an indifferent movement of her shoulders. The idea of returning the question doesn't cross her mind, although he seems to have his own plans, anyway.

"Mine was okay, too." He takes out a glass and Katniss is grateful he doesn't ask her whether she needs anything. She would kindly reject him, but such offers never cease to be tempting for her, regardless. "I like Saturdays better. Vick might be young, but he helps me a lot."

"Oh? Gale's brother?" she wonders.

"Uh-huh," he confirms. "That's him."

"That's good, I guess." Katniss can admit the conversation is getting too awkward for her taste. Better yet, the realization of Glimmer being alone in the living room, waiting, while they're here, chattering and sharing meaningless information is what makes the whole situation uncomfortable. Judging by his face, she can only imagine the feeling is mutual.

"I should go back to my room," she announces. This time, he doesn't insist on her acting as she pleases, since he possibly suspects Katniss and Glimmer won't manage to coexist in the same room for more than five minutes. "I'll stay out of earshot, so if this worries you—"

He interrupts her. "—it doesn't. I'm not worried about you," he rushes to reassure her.

Her three middle fingers twitch beside her hip. Before she has the chance to realize she was about to reach for him, intending to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, she stops herself. This is considered uncharted territory for her—not completely, though, for she has a friend and a sister—and she can't really risk causing a misunderstanding. The relationship that has been built slowly and carefully between them has plenty of advantages. There is, however, also a variety of possible moves—several sensitive topics—that could kill the mood in no time. She has thought of how havoc could be brought in the household more times than she should.

"Good luck, then," she mutters.

"Thanks," he mumbles back. "I think I'll need it."

**.**

**.**

She stares sadly at the end of her long braid. Her thumb runs over the dark strands of hair as she hears herself let the breath she didn't know she was holding.

She remembers her father playfully reminding her every time she needed a haircut, while her mother shook her head with a glimpse of happiness in her eyes, telling her how beautiful she was or how Mr. Everdeen was simply kidding her. (He loved his wife's hair, after all, didn't he? This was Mrs. Everdeen's only argument, but it was also all Katniss needed to hear to let the smile timidly spread across her lips.)

This kind of comments never bothered her when they came from the people she cared about, so why would she let them eat away at her now? Why _now _they're coming from Glimmer Templesmith's foul—words, terrible words have escaped it—mouth?

"_Don't you ever cut your hair?_" she'd asked her with a look of what Katniss saw as masked disgust. It was pronounced as though Katniss is something dirty, worthless. The glare Glimmer shot at her direction could do nothing but exacerbate the feeling of uneasiness in Katniss's gut.

But they're not children anymore. They're not in high school. She can't understand why people don't change—she has no clue why they don't make any efforts to change, since anyone can do so, if they want to.

After the main entrance in the house is closed, the only sound to be heard is Peeta's exhausted footsteps. She isn't sure what he and Glimmer talked about or if there were any explanations about the whole living-together issue, mainly because she didn't dare to go back on her word and descend the stairs. (If only Glimmer had promised to stay where Peeta told her to, everything might have ended okay. Katniss could have never imagined her former classmate would burst into her room with the excuse of _wanting to see the house one more time_. This '_one more _time' was the cause of the questions running inside her head.)

"I'm sorry about this," says Peeta when he spots her. "She just…" He pauses, and then exhales. "She never grows up. She still acts as if she has the same rights she did when she was with me."

Katniss raises a questioning eyebrow. "We were together, yes. It's a pretty long story actually. A tiring one," he lets her know like he can read her mind.

He notices how her fingers are still touching her braid. "You shouldn't take anything she says seriously." His gaze softens all of sudden and Katniss isn't prepared for what will come next. Anything unknown usually scares her—does she truly want to get to know Peeta Mellark's every side?

Her hand falls back down. "I learned not to," she tells him. Even though what she says is true, she's aware she doesn't sound convincing, not even to herself. He doesn't know why she's incapable of being persuasive, but she does. Right now, she can't shake the connection of her father and Glimmer wanting to see one single thing—the same thing. Mr. Everdeen's words were affectionate and caring (he did care about his daughters—a lot), while Glimmer's were full of malice. Katniss wishes she could feel the difference, because she can definitely see it, but her brain is so foggy, she can't quite concentrate.

Peeta is the one to break the silence hanging, stretching between them. "Thanks for being so patient."

She snorts. "Give me some credit."

"Katniss," he warns. "You know I didn't mean it in a bad way."

"Yeah, I do," she answers lazily. "Is there any chance of her coming back any time soon, though? I'm not sure I can go through this again," she professes, her cheeks flushing red in what can only be characterized as embarrassment.

He chuckles good-naturedly. "I hope not." What's that supposed to mean? "We broke up _before _I turned seventeen. I have absolutely no idea why she still comes here."

"She was cheating on you," Katniss declares, rolling her eyes.

He gives her a bewildered look. "No, that's not the reason why we broke up. I just had to do a lot of things to help my family with back then. I had tons of responsibilities and she wasn't the person to support me for neglecting her." He sighs, but hurriedly adds what he has in mind. "But I don't blame her! She just couldn't understand why I had no time for her when she visited Twelve—I never expected her to."

Katniss is more than just confused. She shrugs and speaks about what she knows for sure. "She was cheating on you, anyway."

He grimaces. "What do you mean?"

She shrugs. "Ever heard of Cato Crane?" He nods. "She'd been all over him until we graduated." She shudders at the memory of them shamelessly expressing how…interested they were in each other in the school hallways. "Getting into details is not such a good idea."

"That's just great," he says sarcastically, obviously referring to how he was deceived by his girlfriend for as long as he had problems in his house.

_I had to do a lot of things to help my family with back then. I had tons of responsibilities._

Only when her next words are out of the mouth, does she regret them. It wasn't supposed to come out like _that_; she wasn't supposed to be so forward.

"How did your father die?" she asks. She finds no respect in her question afterwards—none besides the way the volume of her voice becomes more and more silent as she touches a subject that would be sensitive, if she were in his shoes.

The color of his eyes turns into an ocean blue, his gaze clouded. He lowers his head, blinking incredulously. Sure, the village is small and everyone knows about his loss, but how did Katniss hear so quickly? People _know _not to talk about this. They know he didn't take his father's illness lightly.

Peeta slowly lifts his head, shooting her an unreadable glance. "I'd rather not talk about it right now."

Katniss doesn't blame him. She wouldn't be in the mood to narrate to him what happened with _her _parents. In fact, she's quite startled there's no hostility or hatred in his words—but not everyone's like Glimmer.

"Okay," she whispers. "I guess it's a bad time to ask you if I can invite my sister for a weekend." _When and _if _Prim's free_, she adds inside her head.

"No," he replies weakly. "Primrose can come."

* * *

**February, Week Three**

The second time Katniss sees Gale Hawthorne in the house is on a Sunday—again. (Sometimes her roommate is too busy to buy the essential products from the market and she has to be the one to do the transactions—Mrs. Hawthorne owns the small pharmacy of the village, so Katniss can say she has come across her son more than once.)

She wonders whether this is what happens every time he visits; him and Peeta challenging each other about trivial things—like the basketball game that took place in the backyard the last time—as well as arguing like immature teenage boys do. She hasn't seen them together much, so she's aware she can't really tell.

After greeting Gale, Katniss supposes she won't be needed for anything other than giving them some privacy, which is probably what they wish for after they find the time to meet with one another. However, when Peeta announces there's something he has hasn't done yet and that he'll be back downstairs in five minutes, Gale asks her to stay.

At first, she thinks it is because being alone in a spacious place is foreign to him or makes him uncomfortable, since he has two brothers and a little sister to look after when he's home. But then, he makes his intentions clear, cutting straight to the main point of the conversation he intended on making from the very start.

The first question following the typical ones (like "how are you doing?" or "it's your day off, right?") is, "Have you ever eaten at Panem?"

According to the few village inhabitants Katniss has met, Panem is the best out of the two restaurants in this place. It attracts people from town and is usually full every Saturday evening. Knowing one of Katniss's weaknesses, Madge had once informed her about tasting the best lamb stew she had ever experienced. Frankly, Katniss thinks her friend believes that because she hadn't tried Mrs. Everdeen's cuisine. No one knows how to cook better than her mother.

"No. I wasn't planning to, either," she eventually says to Gale.

"Why not?" he blurts out almost immediately, probably considering it necessary to defend himself, his choices and his taste.

"I'm not sure. I've never had a reason to go there," she explains.

"Really?" Gale looks warily at the staircase, checking whether Peeta is done yet and quickly realizing he's not. "How about you give it a try, then? You and I could go there the next Saturday—the place is really cool." He abruptly stops himself from telling her anything else, and Katniss is partly thankful for that.

_Partly._

She blinks once, twice. Is he asking her on a freaking _date_?

"Uh…" she starts, and then trails off, unsure of how she ought to complete her pathetic attempt at a sentence.

Realization hits him like a ton of bricks, his shoulders tensing, his chocolate brown eyes growing large. "No, no, that's not what I meant," he hastily tries to fix his previous words.

"Truth to be told, Hawthorne, I'm not sure what you meant, then."

He scratches the back of his head as creases appear between his brows. "It's kinda complicated actually. I want to talk to you. I couldn't think of a better way to do it," he admits.

"Talk to me? Why would you want to talk to me?"

A door shuts from the second floor. Gale nearly jumps from the couch. "Look, if Peeta asks, tell him you're going out. I'll explain to him the next Sunday," he whispers.

She scowls. "It's not like I've agreed to meet you yet."

Gale copies her scowl. Katniss can say Peeta senses something's up by the time he reaches the final step of the staircase. His gaze travels from his friend to his roommate and vice versa, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Even if he wants to know what the topic of the conversation had been while he was gone, he chooses not to refer to it.

The dark-haired boy holds Katniss's gaze pleadingly.

She stands from where she's sitting and leaves without a second word. This action of hers doesn't mean that Gale has missed the defeated nod directed at him, though. His lips curl upwards. Once the smirk finds its way to his mouth, it's difficult to be hidden.

* * *

**February, End of Week Three**

Madge has a ridiculously firm grip every time Katniss wishes nothing more but to escape, sink in the depths of her pleasant loneliness and peace and never re-emerge. Those are the moments when she wishes she had a good book in her hands to spend her time with instead of the sight of her friend holding two entirely different dresses—one hanging from each arm—for her to pick. There's really no picking when it comes to wearing something _nice_, as Madge calls it. This date is not real.

But it's Friday evening and Madge will have none of Katniss's excuses—neither lame nor plausible. She doesn't blabber about what the brown-haired girl _needs _to do when she is asked out, but her piercing—demanding—stare somehow says more than what her mouth could ever utter. Katniss has heard how a million words could be painted in one single picture and the one in her mind is apparently no exception. She imagines—not only imagines, but also suspects—Madge will refuse to leave her cousin's house unless she sees Katniss try _both _of the dresses. The blonde could easily stay here for the night and the thought is more than just unsettling for Katniss, knowing this would be her fault in a strange enough way.

She scoffs and grabs the clothes from Madge's arms, assuring her friend that she can totally make it on her own, when she hears the eager volunteer to be helped.

She shuts one of the bedroom's doors behind her louder than expected, before she cringes at the harsh sound it elicits. She finds herself in her personal bathroom, which was for the guests before she temporarily moved in the house, and examines what Madge has brought to her.

The one dress is worse than the other, she decides. Those are not the colors she'd wear, if it was up to her. (It _is _up to her and she chooses not to care about her meeting—because that's what it is—with Gale. Madge has just somehow ended up responsible for the way Katniss will show up in her non-date.)

Her thoughts are truly anything but helpful to her.

The first piece of clothing she takes in her hands is a dark red color. It reminds her of blood and blood reminds her of hospitals and death. Not to mention that there are no braces. She will go nowhere wrapped in _this_.

The second dress is slightly better. It covers pretty much everything Katniss wants to cover, but navy blue was never one of her main preferences.

She goes out with a big frown on her face, letting Madge know she chooses nothing. (She doesn't tell her she will wear the first thing she considers formal in her wardrobe, and that her choice will be made _tomorrow afternoon_.)

"I'll pick one for you, then," Madge tells her gladly. To Katniss's utter horror, she raises the red dress just a little higher than the blue one, examining it closely. "That one will do."

"No." Katniss crosses her arms in front of her chest, shaking her head stubbornly. "They're yours. I don't feel comfortable borrowing your clothes," she admits.

"Oh, come on. You wouldn't come to town for shopping." _And I'm perfectly fine with that, _Katniss thinks. "I wouldn't have brought these to you, had you accepted my suggestion."

"Madge," Katniss addresses her girl friend with a brief, almost unimportant, shake of her head. "I had no intentions of dressing so formally. I don't see the point in it." And it's true. She isn't capable of seeing the point in wasting her time by wondering how she will appear in front of a person she doesn't even care making an impression to.

Madge sighs. "If I was asked on a date by Gale Hawthorne, I don't think I'd be as cool as you are right now," she states, placing the clothes carefully on the soft covers of Katniss's bed. She looks at it for a good couple of seconds and it's like she's debating with herself whether she should sit on it or not.

"Dates are weird," Katniss declares.

"Sometimes," Madge agrees, surprising both her friend and herself.

"My last date was definitely weird," Katniss adds.

"Your last and only date was with Marvel Flickerman. Of course it was one of the worst experiences of your life."

"Gee, thanks, Madge. I'm certainly looking forward to tomorrow evening now." The sarcasm dripping off the brunette's voice isn't lost on the mayor's daughter. Sympathetic glances and uncomfortable grimaces are exchanged. Madge decides that making herself comfortable on the bed will probably help her be a little less jumpy.

After a long silence passing between the two friends, the blonde's face seems to light up in a way Katniss can't quite place.

"I know what to do!" she suddenly exclaims. "We should call Peeta in here—he has really good taste!"

Katniss flinches, her feet taking two small and timid steps backwards on their own accord. "We'd better leave your cousin out of this," is the only phrase she can come up with saying at the moment.

Though, it is as if no words were spoken—Madge acts incredibly fast, like she never expected and never really got a decent answer from Katniss. She flees the room, her footsteps echoing as she loudly stomps on the stairs, Peeta's name repeatedly falling off her lips.

Katniss mutters a silent curse under her breath, making several efforts to ask herself how she got into this pitiful situation, even though she knows she will never have an answer that will offer her the contentment she needs.

Mellark doesn't take too long to be back with his cousin, but the moments that passed as Katniss was trying to patiently wait for them and—therefore—get ready for what is about to come look like an entire eternity to her.

Peeta can't help the quiet chuckle when he notices the expression that's plastered on her face. "What's wrong?"

"You're laughing at me," she accuses.

"No, I'm not." He lifts his palms defensively, but a stern look urges him to reconsider in a matter of seconds. "Maybe I am. A little."

"Well, stop it," she growls, eyes glistening.

"Hey, hey," Madge interjects. She doesn't speak as she walks towards the bed, but Katniss already knows what she's up to. She holds the dress Katniss thought to be _slightly _better than the other one in front of Peeta. Then, she makes a small movement with her head towards the direction of the second option. "This or that?"

To Katniss's complete surprise, Peeta seems to take the question seriously. His thoughtful expression betrays the fact that he might even be _intrigued _by the new task that somehow has to be completed by him.

"They're for Katniss, right?" he asks. Madge eagerly bobs her head in confirmation.

He slowly approaches her, taking as many steps as he has ever dared to towards her, and holds the clothes in front of her. By the time Madge notices his gaze lingering on the red, strapless dress, she claps her hands in satisfaction and lets one of her biggest smiles decorate her face.

"I knew you'd like this one." Before Katniss has the time or the chance to groan in frustration, he objects.

"Actually, I was trying to figure out what was wrong with this dress. I like the blue one better." The smirk finds its way to his roommate's lips in no time.

"Wha—why does nobody agree with me?"

He smiles. "I don't think Katniss had any intentions of showing anything other than who she really is from her very first date." Madge rolls her eyes dramatically. "_Plus_, navy blue brings out her eyes. You shouldn't ignore it." Katniss wills herself not to blush like a stupid schoolgirl, but the heat creeps its way to her already rosy cheeks (the whole conversation makes her embarrassed in a way or another) anyway.

She unconsciously squirms under his stare. The comments about _eyes _have always made her feel more or less uneasy. They're so incredibly corny and cheesy that holding back from visibly gagging is the best she can do. What makes her think she's even less convenient around him, though, is that Peeta said those words as if he meant them. No one—besides her mother, who always loved to admire her husband's eyes in her daughter's face—noticed _her _eyes before. Truth to be told, grey is odd. She hasn't met anyone beside her father with the same eye color as hers.

"Of course you'd say that," Madge snaps Katniss out of her reverie. She turns her attention to the girl. "Trust Peeta, if clichés aren't a part of your everyday life."

Katniss looks sheepishly at him, while he shrugs in return as if saying "_it's just the way I am_".

"I'll leave you two alone now," he murmurs.

**.**

**.**

The fact that Katniss usually works less on Saturdays makes her hours at Sae's farm seem much fewer than any other weekend. If she said she's looking forward to tonight, she'd be surely lying. She doesn't know what to expect—the feelings and fears the unknown elicits from her must be one of the most horrible things she could experience in her life. Only God knows how much breaking a routine or even hearing about something new—unpleasant or pleasant—costs her.

Her time at home passes like a blur as well. There's barely nothing she can do alone besides reading and tiding—surprisingly enough, she isn't in the mood for none of them. Calling Madge isn't such a clever option, either. She probably won't act as Katniss fears she will, but expecting to hear her fuss about her bad luck (or Katniss's good luck) remains quite a risk. Honestly, there is no apparent reason why Katniss should be considered lucky that Peeta's friend asked her out. (He reminds herself he didn't _really _ask her out, even though she wouldn't understand Madge's words even if he did.)

At around seven o' clock—half an hour before Gale is supposed to come and pick her up—Peeta informs her about his own plans as well. He offers a wry smile she can't quite place and words of approval she can't quite ignore—only her parents used to pay her compliments more than once within a week.

Katniss knows the preparations most of the girls her age do each and every time they are supposed to have a good time out of their home's comfort. If Glimmer was once Peeta's girlfriend, then she doesn't understand what he finds pretty on _her_. She has traded her pants and loose sweatshirts for a blue dress that's not even hers. She has braided her hair differently than how she usually does, in the complex way her mother used to braid it for her, but it still isn't as perfect. She hasn't even applied make-up—except lip gloss, and that's only because her lips are chapped.

When it's finally time to meet up with Gale, he says nothing about her appearance and she decides she is pretty grateful for that. His comments would probably make her squirm twice as much as Peeta's—she doesn't leave in the same house as him, does she?

Thankfully, he doesn't own a bike like Peeta does. He tells her about his father's old car and how he left it home as he prefers walking to driving. They are both aware there's not much they can talk about on their long way to Panem, but they soon indulge in the comfortable silence stretching between them.

They arrive at the restaurant some minutes later, Gale entering the place from the main entrance and Katniss following behind. He leads her to a table he seems to be quite familiar with, before he realizes there are way too many chairs for only two people to sit. (Katniss supposes he brings his siblings here.)

He is the one to break the ice.

"How did Peeta take it?" he asks. "Was he startled?"

"Nah," she replies. "He was okay. His mind seemed occupied."

"Yeah." His expression is thoughtful. "I think he said something about needing to clear some important stuff out tonight." She nods in comprehension. Mellark had told her something about having plans for this evening, anyway.

She bows her head, her gaze trained on the tablecloth, while she takes the menu in her hands and looks through it absent mindedly. She already knows ordering lamb stew is not a good idea. Saving money has been her goal from the very start—she shouldn't make room for any exceptions, even if Gale pays for both of them.

She doesn't know how to continue the conversation. Thus, she remains silent until she hears the sound of him clearing his throat, wordlessly asking her to lift her gaze to meet his.

"So… the walking didn't bother you." At first, she looks at him questioningly, though, when realization dawns on her, she lets his statement echo in her head. She nods, showing him he's right.

"I'm used to it." She shrugs indifferently. "I like walking."

"You must be the first person who says that to me." He snorts, as though his effort at laughing wasn't as successful as he intended it to be.

_Well, everyone has their reasons_, she thinks. "Really?" she says instead, even though she doesn't sound that interested. They share an awkward look and Katniss is reminded why she wasn't anticipating the moment when they'd reach Panem.

To their luck, the waiter decides to rescue them from the lack of ideas for possible topics to discuss. (Katniss notes how he still hasn't told her what they're here for in the first place.)

"Good evening," the waiter greets them. Katniss swears she recognizes this hoarse voice from somewhere. She has no clue why it sounds so ridiculously familiar until she looks up and comes face to face with who she was never expecting to see here. Her pupils dilate, an unusually goofy grin decorating her face.

"Uncle Haymitch!" she exclaims. After she notices the look full of curiosity Gale gives her and the waiter's wince, she keeps her palm over her mouth, preventing herself from spitting any unwanted voiced thoughts and words out.

"Now, now, Miss," the man who's in his early forties tells her. "I believe it is Mr. Abernathy for you." He points at a silly white tag which is attached on his black suit. The sight of him in formal clothes is almost funny, and she realizes his thoughts do not differ much from hers, as he scans her whole form with a raised eyebrow.

Although Gale doesn't speak, Haymitch's eyes find him in a matter of seconds. He raises his eyebrows even higher, if that is even possible.

"And who would that young man be?" he wonders out loud.

"I'm Gale Hawthorne, sir," he introduces himself. They exchange a brief nod of acknowledgement and Katniss suspects that if Gale knows his way around here, Haymitch hasn't been in this place much.

Suddenly, a question pops in her head; _what is he even _doing _here?_

She doesn't even remember how she and Prim started calling the man Uncle Haymitch. She guesses that, since they have heard Madge call him this so many times in the past, the name's stuck. He always makes sure his frown of disapproval is shown every time he hears it, but Katniss thinks that, deep down, he likes being addressed this way.

He's almost as alone as she is. He lost his wife—Maysilee Abernathy—right before Madge's mother became as "sick" as she is now. Better yet, her death is the reason why Mrs. Undersee is so mentally and physically unstable. Katniss wonders whether _this _is what happens to twins—is it impossible for one of them to keep going with their life once the other is gone?

A violent shiver runs down her spine. She can't afford to think this way. Prim is absolutely safe at college and she isn't going anywhere. Katniss makes a mental note to herself to call her when she's alone, in her room.

"Rumor has it you have permanently moved to the village," Haymitch tells her. It is her turn to doubt him. That is until the facts start clicking one by one in her brain, inevitably leading her to the conclusion she has managed to reach.

"Madge told you that," she points out.

"She did." He nods.

"But she didn't tell me you were working here. I'd have come to visit you sooner," she tells him. This man has unknowingly achieved to make her feel attached to him over the years, it's almost insane. Katniss doesn't know whether she has to put the blame on how similar they are (silent, blunt and bitter when necessary) or on how he had practically been the one to raise his niece after his wife's death. (They saw each other pretty often.)

On the other hand, Madge had been one of the reasons why he almost quit drinking. By the time the weight of bringing up a teenage girl—Maysilee's favorite niece—was on his shoulders, he just knew he couldn't combine his responsibilities with his habits. Though, Katniss thinks what made him stronger has to do with the contentment his time with the three girls—Madge, Katniss and Prim—gave him, and not considering the obligations he thought he had a chore.

In other words, Uncle Haymitch liked their company. He enjoyed looking out for them, even when it came to the silliest issues.

"The girl didn't know for a reason. Still doesn't." He implies he actually minds her presence here, but his mock displeasure makes it hard for her to believe him.

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

"What does it look like?" He makes a brief gesture with his hands, showing her the place around him. "I work here."

"I think we've established that, Haymitch." She scoffs. "But _why _would you be here?"

"I once lived here, too, Sweetheart." _I had friends and family here_.

"Stop calling me that."

"Stop asking questions."

"Fair enough." Katniss looks across from her, suddenly remembering Gale is still sitting with her. He watches the whole interaction without uttering a word, his face expressionless.

"Gale Hawthorne, huh?" says Haymitch. "Would you, by any chance, be the son of Hazelle Hawthorne?" Gale confirms the fact with a movement of his head. "She's got lots of kids," the waiter adds.

"Four." This time, Haymitch nods.

"Have you decided what you'll have yet, kids?" And like this, Katniss realizes her talk with a familiar face has come to an end.

Haymitch helps her choose what she'll eat, while Gale orders confidently what he probably always does. Just before the dark-haired man turns on his heel to continue his job, he and Katniss share a bit more of personal information.

"I haven't moved here _permanently_," she confesses.

"For the refreshments," he admits. "That's why I'm here." He _almost _quit drinking.

**.**

**.**

"I'm surprised you haven't asked me yet," Gale tells her. She looks up, examining his face closely, her one eyebrow arching as she silently questions his motives. She chews slowly, before she carefully swallows her bite, preparing herself to speak.

"It's up to you," she reminds him. "You called me here. You are the one who gets to decide what I'll know and what I won't."

"So, what you're saying is that if I called you here for no reason, you'd be okay with it," he voices his interpretation of her words, the disbelief palpable as he talks.

"You said you wanted to tell me something, didn't you?" she asks. "You don't seem stupid enough to call me for no reason."

He smirks again and Katniss wonders whether this is supposed to be one of his smiles. "You have a point." Had his tone been smug, Katniss would have surely scowled.

"I guess I do," she replies in the same tone, letting him picture her personality the way she thinks of his.

He soon realizes he will have to be the one to start the conversation, since she apparently refuses to do so. "Catnip."

The temptation to correct him overcomes her before she has the chance to register it, although she knows he's doing it on purpose. "_Katniss_."

"Katniss," he repeats. "Peeta's cousin is your friend, isn't she?"

She places her fork back on the table. "Madge?"

"Madge," he confirms.

"She is. What about her?"

"I'll get straight to the point. There's no use in acting otherwise," he warns her. "I'm curious to know what she thinks of me. She's…from town. She might be different from the girls here." He pauses.

"I'm afraid you will have to explain yourself." She understands nothing.

"My father was a man I used to look up to when I was still a kid," he says. "He was the person who put food on our table. I saw him as the strong, honest man who loved his wife and never let his family down." He crumples the first napkin he comes across. "I ceased to think of him this way at the age of twelve."

Katniss decides it is time to make sure he's talking to her instead of himself, that this is something she's supposed to hear because he wants her to. "What happened?" she encourages him.

He offers a look of gratification, and she knows she has done something right. "He cheated on my mother when she was still pregnant with Posy."

"Posy?"

"That's my youngest sister. She's seven now," he explains, before he continues. "Father left her for another woman in her mid-twenties. They ran off together." Katniss recognizes his facial expression to be the one of disgust.

"But how… how did your mother…?"

"How she knew? He told her. He didn't know Posy was on the way." Katniss frowns. "He also tried to talk to us about how sometimes people fall in love after they're already married. But… I couldn't accept it, you know?" Her frown deepens. She can't pretend she understands what he's talking about, since she has never been forced to be under similar circumstances, but she can't find it in her to shake her head, either. Instead, she waits for him to move on. "I had to support my family on my own when I was _twelve_. He claimed he did my mother a favor by not deceiving her behind her back, but he didn't do _me _a favor. Some of his debts were left unpaid."

"Gale," Katniss grimaces. "Sorry, but I don't know what all this has to do with Madge."

"Sometimes, the people in District Twelve are too narrow-minded. I'm not talking about only the old men and women who were meant to stick to their ancient beliefs, but also their children. Nobody took me seriously. They think my choices are always frivolous, but they know nothing about them." He looks her straight in the eye. "You don't seem to pity me. That's why I'm telling you."

"I don't pity anyone," she retorts in a tone which is harsher than originally intended. "I don't like it when others pity me."

A faint smile plays on his lips. "Like father like son."

"Huh?"

"They whisper when they think you can't hear them. They think I'll be unfaithful to whoever chooses to involve romantically with me," he explains.

She can't help herself. "That is ridiculous. Are you sure you haven't done anything to encourage their intentions?"

He shakes her head. "Divorcing is rare here, that's all. Too rare," he lets her know.

"Weird," she mutters to herself, while he hums in agreement. "What would you want me to do, then?" she asks, clearly bewildered.

"I want to know what a person, who hasn't heard of those idiotic rumors, thinks of me. I want to know if I'm really doing something wrong. Madge is…" he trails off, unconsciously prompting her to complete the sentence for him.

"Innocent? Naïve?"

"Different. She's from town. She has grown up in a different way."

"That doesn't give you the right to take advantage of her," Katniss protests. Madge's words and thoughts about Gale were—and they definitely remain—anything but negative. What if she jumps into false conclusions sooner than she should? What if Gale keeps leading her on?

"You have misunderstood me. I do like Madge. I just want to know whether she's interested in hanging out with me."

"And you want me to—"

"—tell her only that. Don't talk to her. I'll do that myself."

The creepy sound of the metallic cutlery against the dish urges Katniss to put the fork down once again. She lets out a small cough. "I'll see what I can do," she mumbles.

As she thinks of how soon she will be able to phone her twin sister again, a random thought crosses her mind. Peeta's reaction to her "date" with Gale was nothing like how she felt as if she needed to protect Madge moments ago. He was too calm, too okay with it—almost ignorant, even though the surprise was also there at first.

She can comprehend the meaning of neither his actions nor his whole attitude. She will know nothing until he tells what's wrong with him and what isn't.

However, getting to know to him is not a wise solution. She doesn't need—or want for that matter—any more friends. She would have to care, love more people than she already does and there is absolutely no way she can afford to hurt herself more. (She honestly wouldn't be worried, if it weren't for that incident that happened two weeks ago. Not only has she let him see too much, but she has also allowed him to carry her on his bike. A _bike_.)

She offers Gale a fake, tight-lipped smile, letting him know everything's okay, eliminating his concern. The fact that they have shared a meal at Panem has nothing to do with Peeta.

Katniss rushes to put the random thought of him aside.


	3. Three: March & April

**A major thank you to **TheAfterShock **for agreeing to proof-read the story for me once the story is complete/whenever there is time (**the chapter is unbeta'd, so every mistake is mine**) and all of you who put it/me in your favorite/alert list, or reviewed. Feedback is much appreciated.**

Notes:

_#1 I am sorry for the delay. My computer had a problem I really needed to fix, and I had to do without it for two and a half weeks. That, unfortunately, messed with my plans. (I know I've already said it in a private message, but I apologize to those of you who got a preview of this chapter later than expected. This time, you should all get a sneak peek a week after the update:)). _

_#2 I am warning you that my updates won't be (too) frequent. There are many other priorities I need to keep in mind first. I'm sure most of you can relate to my situation. Please, understand me. I am certainly not prolonging the updates on purpose. _

_#3 as I've mentioned in chapter one, some of the characters' ages are a little different than in the books. The main changes are written below: (I hope I'm helpful)_

_Katniss E. (**18**), Peeta M. (**19**), Madge U. (**18**), Primrose E. (**18**), Rory H. (**18**), Gale H. (**19**), Vick H. (**15**), Posy H. (**7**), Greasy Sae (**mid-fifties**), Haymitch-Mr.-Mrs. Everdeen (**40+**), Thom (**30**), Johanna (**25**), Glimmer (**18**)._

_(Have I missed anyone?)_

Replies to anonymous reviews:

**Guest: **Yes, it is an everlark story. I know things are going slow, there is not much dialogue, and Katniss isn't the one to open up right away. Though, I prefer the slow build-up of the relationships between/among characters. In this case, Katniss holding back seems more realistic. You should still expect a kiss nevertheless. "Roommates" _is_ labeled under _Romance_.

Words:** 10,313 **(Normal word limits: 8,000-14,000)

Disclaimer: _I own almost nothing. _

Update: _31.10.2012_

* * *

**Three: March and April**

**March, End Of Week One**

The scissors glistens in her hand. Its silver surface is smooth against her palm, while the tips of its two blades are sharp, barely ghosting over the sensitive flesh of her fingers. She notes how her nails were cut just a day ago.

She knows the thoughts and ideas that have been clouding her mind for weeks now are all insane and the frown she sees on her face as she reluctantly gazes at her reflection in the mirror of the bathroom does nothing but confirm the fact. She can only come up with one thing at the moment; she has never done this before.

She has never cut her own hair because of a comment that was meant to insult her—she has never let anyone corrupt her emotional strength or downgrade her. She quickly reminds herself that Glimmer was only the cause of her final decision. She has been considering having her hair cut for a while now, her father's words always repeating themselves like an unforgettable mantra inside her head.

Disappointing her parents while they were alive was one thing; doing so now should be unthinkable. It's not like she believes they can see her from whenever they are; no. Their loss was just one of the facts she has realized she doesn't always seem to embrace.

Katniss puts the sharp object down.

Her fingers comb through her hair until her hands reach the level of her waist, where her braid usually ends.

The pair of shears is back in her palm, which is starting to sweat at a pretty uncomfortable rate. For a single moment, her eyelids drop, and she exploits the chance of welcoming the darkness. However, she knows she can achieve absolutely nothing by shutting the world out. Even if she manages to push any kind of emotions away, her hand isn't steady enough for her to cut her hair evenly. She at least has to end up decent-looking.

After she releases the long breath she didn't know she had been holding, she brings her hair in front of her, leaning forward ever so slightly. She carefully trims the ends of it with a half heart.

She expresses no kind of fascination when it comes to long hair. Yet it is what she's used to. The insecurities of what she's about to do make her more self-conscious than she has probably ever been before. For once, Katniss _cares_ for what people will think of her.

She loses herself in her train of thought before she has the chance to fully register it. She has no time to realize her movements are clumsier than she'd like them to be. She sees the aftermath of her actions in the white porcelain sink. The scream burns her throat, but never really escapes her lips.

The sound of her unusually loud footfalls, following the nearly inaudible growl, echoes in the entire house. She faces the full-length mirror in the hallway, gasping at the sight in front of her.

She touches her upper arm because, suddenly, _this_ is where the imaginable braid will stop. A sharp intake of breath is heard. It takes her a while to realize it's _her_ heart drumming inside her chest.

Her hand moves to her abdomen. She clutches the fabric there.

She is so focused on what could be done for things to go back to the way they were, that she misses the sound Peeta's feet make.

"One more question," he says. He chuckles. "Hopefully the last one." Her sister will be here tomorrow morning. He has been asking her questions about Prim's preferences—even the flavors in a cake—for the past two hours.

Peeta seems to regret his decision as soon as he faces her. "Why are you in the dark?" he wonders curiously. And he's right. The hallway is consumed by the darkness. The only reason why they can still see each other concerns the lighting of the rest house. Though, they can't see _everything_—Katniss wishes to keep it this way.

"I was heading for my room." The excuse sounds plausible to her ears. Eight in the evening is too early for her to sleep, but she's been finding enough peace and tranquility in there lately. She isn't entirely sure why, but she feels as if he's noticed this, too.

He turns the light on, regardless. He looks suspicious. Katniss hastily pulls her hair to the one side, hiding the short strands of it under the long ones.

"What's wrong?" He approaches her, his eyes narrowing at her in something close to worry. She wonders whether he can hear her heartbeat from where he is.

An incoherent phrase escapes her lips, while she clenches her fists around her hair tighter, in a way that's less discreet than she'd like it to be.

She drops her right hand to her side, simultaneously loosing the grip of her left one, not knowing what to do next. She proceeds to follow his gaze, betraying herself once she realizes it has landed on her hair.

The heat creeps its way to her cheeks. "What happened?" he asks silently, carefully.

She parts her lips, hoping for a clever lie—a _small_ lie, really—to come out of them, but she has no such luck. "I tried to cut my hair," she blurts out instead, recognizing the pathetic truth in her own words. "But," she adds. "It didn't work out. I mean…I don't…I don't know how to do it…and I didn't want to call Madge. She'd have to take me to town and I…" She sighs, finally deciding to keep her mouth closed. She inwardly huffs at how nothing useful has escaped it thus far.

Peeta has a thoughtful expression on his face. "You don't need to call Madge. You can wait until tomorrow morning. I'll take you to a hairdresser—"

Katniss shakes her head furiously, cutting him off, refusing to even think about it. She certainly doesn't need to owe him any more favors. After all, there is no way she will allow him to carry her on his bike again.

"It's not _that_." It's not. She's not worried about going to town; she's worried about letting someone else cut her hair. A stranger, a person who won't even understand what she wants, someone who doesn't even see her on a weekly basis. Someone who simply isn't her mother.

"What is it, then?" His voice is still soft. He makes no effort to change his tone.

She wants to hate him more than anything else. After all those years, she has finally managed to see right through the people who reluctantly fake concern and those who are genuinely interested in her well being. Nobody has ever cared about her besides her parents and Madge. (Perhaps Haymitch, too.) She has been taught that life is this way.

But now there's Peeta and he _cares_. She wants to hate him for it. She could stay on her own, wondering for hours why she hasn't and will never be able to achieve this, but she would find no answer.

She convinces herself that if she lets her guard down for some moments, nothing bad can happen. A wrong move can be easily fixed.

"Generally speaking, I don't like hairdressers."

Her grandmother was a hairdresser. Not the one who gave her the beautiful locket when she was little, but the one who didn't accept Mrs. Everdeen's choice to marry an unprivileged villager; the one who sent her daughter away. Her mother had learned how to braid Katniss's and Prim's hair from her.

Katniss expects him to be surprised at her odd statement or even curious about the explanations she will not share. Though, he is the one to surprise her.

"That's no problem. I could do it," he tells her confidently. She stares at him in disbelief, her one eyebrow slightly arching as she attempts to grasp the real meaning of his words. A couple of seconds later, she realizes he means every single one of them.

"Do what?" she asks what's been bugging her, for she has to be sure.

"Help you cut your hair," he explains, confirming her assumptions. "I'd once done it for one of my brothers."

Katniss knows his father was a baker. There is, however, a missing piece in this puzzle. _Does_ he know what he's talking about? Is his mother a hair stylist? When she left this house, she probably also left this village without a hairdresser. Maybe this is why everyone has to go to town for a new haircut.

Peeta distinguishes the query in Katniss's eyes. "I improvised," he confesses. The gasp is released against her will, even though her facial expression would betray her surprise anyway. "But things turned out to be okay," he adds, completely unbothered by Katniss's reaction.

"Did someone teach you?" she asks curiously. She almost immediately scolds herself—she should be reasonable, shouldn't she? She is positive he said something along the lines of improvising.

"No." He shakes his head. "Creativity was actually one of the very few things mother trusted me with." He counts his fingers. "Frosting the wedding and birthday cakes, decorating the bakery on special occasions, coming up with perfect excuses to be invisible every time an important person visited…" He trails off, making Katniss realize he has noticed the deep frown that is plastered on her face.

_Invisible? _There are so many other words he could have said to her, so why did he choose this one? He knows that's nothing but the ugly truth, yet he believes letting Katniss know about his family's distrust is unfair when she grabs every single chance she gets to shut him out.

"I think I can make it," he eventually says, trying to cover his previous mistake, but Katniss refuses to fix her lingering grimace.

In the end, she manages to focus on nothing other than her current worries. Peeta has been living alone for a while. She is sure those problems he started referring to concern his past.

When she nods, almost giving him permission, her insecurity only increases.

**.**

**.**

He helps her drag a chair to his bathroom, before he thoughtfully places it against his sink. He asks her to give him her brush, for her hair is still too long to be smoothed out with a simple comb like his. He takes a scissors of his own, but instead of closing his fingers around it, he puts it on a self away from her.

She stares curiously at him, anticipating his next move, even when she knows he has convinced himself to concentrate on his task rather than her.

He sends her to her half of the house one more time—she forgot her shampoo—and she can't help noting how the door leading to his room makes her feel a strange familiarity. Although this is considered uncharted territory for her, there is a calmness connected with Peeta as well as the way he has organized nearly everything in his life.

When she's back and he reminds her that her hair needs to be soaked before they're cut, she swears not to let him know she _likes_ his hands. Sure, he must have realized she isn't as stressed about the results of her appearance anymore, but he _can't_ know she's actually _enjoying_ the way his fingers are massaging her scalp.

A series of shivers run down her spine and she blames the cool water for the unwanted shaking of her shoulders. Peeta mumbles a rushed apology for the temperature and promises to finish as fast as possible.

As soon as he makes sure he doesn't go back on his word, he surprises her by placing his index finger right below her chin, awakening unrest inside her brain and chest. Her eyes flutter open, her vision becoming clearer and clearer as the seconds pass.

"Is this because of Glimmer?"

His question is pretty simple, yet it has the desired effect. Even if Katniss is usually not a person of words, she is rendered utterly speechless. Now, when her gaze meets his, she knows he notices. He stares back at her, the intensity of his eyes urging her to bite the corner of her lower lip.

She can't explain it to him. He'd need to have lived not only the happy and beautiful, but also the painful moments with her to understand her. Sometimes, even Madge can't comprehend or interpret Katniss's actions. Only Prim can; only Prim is supposed to have this ability.

"No," she tells him, and it's partly true. He retreats a step once he realizes there's no point in hovering over her anymore. Katniss has this weird wish to be aware of what's going on inside his head at this very moment.

Her hands grip the edges of her seat. She _wants_ to know how she looks, but not while he's present. She will have to leave his bathroom to achieve this, as she has no right to tell him to go.

He somehow still holds her gaze. Unlike the rest of the times they have interacted, he appears to be pretty hesitant to make the conversation a little easier for them to bear.

He eventually decides to break some of the tension by clearing his throat. "You're alright." He makes a movement with his head, referring to the haircut she hasn't approved of yet. "More than alright," he adds.

Despite everything, a hint of a smile play's on Katniss's lips. She stands up, glancing at the tiles of the floor to hide the extent of her gratefulness. This is one of the comments—compliments—that manage to make her _feel_ alright. There are so many words that would normally make her blush and she doesn't like being embarrassed.

"Thank you," she whispers, deliberately avoiding the mirror in front of her.

He shrugs, copying her smile from before. "Anytime."

She has somehow managed to owe him more than she already does. He has offered her a place to stay after all, hasn't he? She is positive there are more comforts here than in the dormitories Prim lives. She feels guilty.

"You know, Katniss," he starts. She halts, turning around to face him. "Your self-esteem is unreasonably low. I think you're capable of much more than what you're giving yourself credit for." He shakes his head, before he corrects himself. "I _know_ it."

Frankly, she has no clue how she should reply to him. His words could be the cause of her thinking for hours. She wonders whether he's always been like this.

Katniss finally nods as she begins to slowly digest the information.

He's making it hard for her to ignore him. Maybe too hard.

* * *

**March, Week Two**

Prim's blue eyes are vividly scanning the house. Her eyebrows threaten to rise over her forehead, her amazement evident. She mutters something about _not knowing there are such awe-inspiring houses in a simple and small village like that, _while her gaze keeps travelling.

It takes a while for Katniss to realize she's seeking for something she hasn't seen so far. Curiosity has never bothered her sister, so Katniss is not timid at all when she asks.

"Uhm…is there something you're looking for?" She had made a plan in her head the night before. Taking Prim in her personal space was among her intentions, but right now she has no other choice but to wait patiently for her to speak.

"Someone," Prim corrects, her brows furrowed in concentration. She is probably coming up with many different scenarios. Katniss knows that well from experience. Her confusion vanishes when she catches Prim's message.

"He's not here." She had repeatedly stated how she wanted to meet him. "He's at work."

"The bakery?" Katniss nods in confirmation. "When is he coming back?"

She doesn't need to glance at a clock to know. The color of the sky out of the tall windows helps her estimate the time. "Soon," she replies honestly, and she quickly recognizes the spark of eagerness in her sister's eyes.

"Would you like me to show you my room?"

She does, right after receiving a positive shake of Prim's head. The issue of Katniss's unexpected dinner with Gale at _Panem _somehow enters their conversation. After a while, it becomes the main issue of it. (Prim still can't believe Madge has showed interest in a _boy_ so easily. She is, however, less worried than Katniss is about it. Her reasons and arguments overpower the brunette's once more. Madge is an eighteen-year-old girl and she can most likely take care of herself.)

Peeta makes no noise when he arrives. He only makes his presence known when he shouts her name from the lower floor, waiting to see her look back at him from the staircase, ask him what he needs to hear.

He questions her about Prim's visit and she looks behind her, just to see her sister poking her head out of the bedroom, the sound of the exchanged words effectively attracting her attention.

After Peeta invites them downstairs, Prim saves her small wave for some seconds later, before she greets him officially, offering her hand. She squeezes his fingers a little tighter than normal after he returns the gesture, a silent warning reflected in her azure eyes.

Katniss remains oblivious to the way Peeta follows Prim's gaze and nods his head, wordlessly promising her the time when he'd show indifference towards Katniss, her actions and movements in the house is over.

It really is. He isn't sure whether he has the ability of putting a name to what he's feeling for her, but he knows it is much more than gratefulness for just keeping him company. (He reminds himself this is not the reason why he let her stay in his house. Sometimes, he wonders why he even agreed so fast in the first place.)

It is also much more than the blind crush he had developed on her when he was fifteen. He sees her—really sees her—now. There is no wonder he would try to understand her, if she ever let him. He wants her to be more than just the title she was given. He wants her to be more than his housemate.

He blinks fast, clearing his throat as he catches her observing him with a small scowl. He has learned to recognize this facial expression of hers as one of concentration and suspicion. Katniss hardly responds sarcastically to his comments or glances anymore.

"We have croissants," he suddenly states. Katniss looks at him surprised. "And cheese buns. And muffins." Realization dawns on her once the last word is heard. Muffins are Prim's favorites. He hasn't gone back on his word.

"You didn't have to bring anything," she says, already knowing he'll dismiss her attempts to make him stop offering.

He replies by nodding. "I know," he tells her. "But there's nothing wrong with bringing things from the bakery," he states. "After all, I work there."

As he keeps making those small, sweet gestures for her and her sister, Katniss feels more and more in debt. She feels like she owes him, since she hasn't found a way to properly repay him yet. She feels inadequate.

Prim momentarily saves her from her excruciating train of thought.

"I cook, too, sometimes," she announces. The glint in Peeta's blue eyes becomes evident after he decides to use his voice.

"Really?"

"I don't know much about baking," she warns seconds later. She steals a brief glance at Katniss. "Our mother had taught me, though. Lemon pie is my specialty." Her grin spreads across her pale face.

Katniss admires—envies even—her ability to mention her mother without waiting for approval or fearing she has given too much information away.

"My mother wasn't as patient as my father was," Peeta lets them know with a thoughtful expression. Unlike Prim, his voice cracks in the end. The last part of the phrase is barely heard. "But she did teach me things, too." _Practical things only (like tying his shoelaces so he wouldn't trip or counting money correctly, as they couldn't afford paying an employee)_, he adds inside his head, but not out loud. He doesn't want the girls to think badly of his mother, despite his opinion. Peeta's not _always_ mad at his remaining family members. Sometimes he misses them, admits to himself that he still loves them.

"Well, not everyone's the same," Prim says smartly, at an attempt to get him out of the uncomfortable situation. "If you don't believe it, then all you need to do is take a look at Katniss and me." She shrugs.

"Of course I do," he assures her. "I agree. Partly." Katniss shifts her weight from the one foot to the other as soon as he eyes her.

He raises an eyebrow, playfully questioning them. "Are you sure you're _twin_ sisters?" He smiles, lifting his left cheek seconds before the right one.

Katniss parts her lips, not quite sure how to respond to this. She and Primrose are just so _different_. When Katniss is quiet and thoughtful and scowling like a toddler, Prim is talkative and charming. When Katniss is cold and scared to love anyone who might have the same fate as her parents, Prim offers one of her heartwarming smiles and accepts everyone and everything. But mostly, she accepts that life goes on, no matter what.

Perhaps this is where Katniss is wrong; for her, the road is craggier than it should be. She stumbles on her own mistakes, refusing to let go off things that are valuable, yet meaningless.

At this moment, she confesses to herself that Peeta doesn't really deserve her as a roommate. Prim would have been a better company, an easier person to talk to as well as make arrangements with. Her visit has apparently brought multiple fears of Katniss to the surface. (Peeta considering her strange attitude insufferable enough to kick her out of his house. Her sister accusing her of being jealous—and she supposes she _is_ in a way. She _is_ jealous when she can't achieve unimportant little things that rarely matter to her.)

"Positive." Prim's voice rings distantly in Katniss's ears. The latter shakes her head, clearing it, and remembering Peeta's question about them being twins.

Unintentional sighs are heard, before Peeta promises to get the treats. They start from the muffins.

Peeta and Prim talk about every single kind of possible dessert; foam, but mainly butter cakes, chocolate cookies and sweet pies. Katniss notes rather sadly that if Prim doesn't make it until the end of her studies, she will be good at working at a bakery or a confectionery shop in town.

"Nah, we usually have cheese buns. Katniss prefers them."

"Katniss?" Prim calls worriedly. She must have lost track of their conversation. She blinks several times, pushing her confusion away.

A flutter in her stomach follows and it has nothing to do with the need to eat or being cold. Peeta's words wriggle inside her head.

_Katniss prefers them._

It's true. Cheese buns are often what she likes the most, what she longs for. But does that mean he makes more of them for _her_? The thought calms her nerves a little, making her realize he might not mind her presence _that_ much after all.

"Sorry," Peeta apologizes, grimacing a little. "I had no idea Prim knew about those things. We got a bit carried away, I guess." He unconsciously rubs the back of his neck—one of his nervous habits Katniss couldn't help but notice.

Katniss shakes her head, for once pleased that her sister has found someone to discuss one of her passions. Prim translates.

"That's okay. Katniss and I will have lots of time to catch up later." She breathes out dreamily. "I wish I could come here more often." She pauses, considering it better. "But it really isn't practical, is it? If this place wasn't worth the trip, it would be a waste of time and money. I don't remember the price of the bus tickets being so high before," she murmurs disappointed.

"You've had a while to come back here," Peeta reasons.

"Yeah," she agrees. "Maybe that's why."

Katniss plays with the slender fingers in her lap. Her name slides from Peeta's lips, so she lifts her gaze, giving him a questioning look. "Would you mind me showing Prim a last recipe? I promise this will be the last one."

Surprisingly enough, a small smile spreads across her face. "Okay."

When he's gone, the smile falls from her lips. She narrows her eyes at Prim who's giving her the thumbs up.

"I like your hair like that," the blonde blurts out, throwing bombshell after bombshell, making it harder and harder for Katniss to elaborate.

She can feel the blood rush to her cheeks and is thankful that she manages to recover before Peeta returns.

* * *

**March, Week Three**

She should have known. She should have known everything would be different from the moment she set Gale and Madge up—because, in reality, that's all she did after keeping her promise to transfer the boy's words to her best friend.

Katniss hears the long exhale of breath escape her, her shoulders slumping in disappointment. The days when she wishes for any kind of interaction are rare, since reading a book or organizing the events that will follow in the next couple of days is what she is usually occupied with. There are, however, still times when she wants proof she's not the only person in this world. She needs to see it, and therefore feel it.

Madge is obviously not available today. Even though, she _isn't_ in town, she has chosen to spend her time in a different way than she all too often does while being in District Twelve. But then again, it's Tuesday. Madge had no reason to suspect Katniss would come back home earlier than expected.

According to Peeta, Gale would teach her how to drive a tractor. Katniss works in a farm and she doesn't even know how to operate one, let alone drive it. She has no clue how this will be a useful experience for Madge.

When Katniss reaches the sitting room, her feet stop moving. Her lips press together, forming a thin line. He is lying on the smallest couch of the two (she knows she'd always take the larger one), watching a trivial television show, dawdling. He almost immediately feels her presence, looking up to address her without speaking.

She understands.

"I called her," she announces with a frown.

"And?" He raises an eyebrow, his tone playful. He is probably more amused than he should be.

"She's busy," Katniss huffs. She eyes the empty couch, then Peeta. She gnaws the inside of her left cheek, hoping he won't mock her, if he realizes how welcoming it seems to her right now.

He grins stupidly, although she believes he really has no reason to. A small part of her would be ready to ask him why he seems so strangely pleased, if it weren't for the other half of her—the rational one. She eventually keeps her lips sealed.

"Sit," he suggests, his chin pointing to the long couch. She silently obeys, but writhes uncomfortably when realization hits her. He isn't going anywhere.

She makes several unsuccessful efforts to focus on the TV show. She drops her mobile phone on the coffee table, mentally cursing, for she manages to distract Peeta once more.

"You're going to break it someday," he murmurs.

"That's my business," she grumbles in return. This is enough to silence him, urge him to stop looking at her. Katniss reminds herself this is what she wanted from the very start, yet the guilt doesn't cease to exist, burning her insides.

He doesn't apologize for trying to make conversation, because _honestly_ he doesn't think he should. Instead of feeling the need to mask his hurt, he simply pretends he heard nothing at all. He has learned not to take what she says personally. He doesn't know whether she always means the words or if they're just one of her various defense techniques.

Once again, he is the one to speak first. "Have you ever watched that show before?" He already wants to smack himself for his recklessness—the question is anything but thoughtful—but she doesn't seem to mind.

"I'm not sure," she replies, her voice gentler, calmer this time. "I may have. Once or twice." She doesn't watch television much.

He nods, not considering it essential to articulate any more words. He is more than just surprised when her voice fills the broken silence.

"Have you?" Her couch is right across from his. He shifts on it so he'll be facing her in case she chooses to tilt her head towards him. She visibly swallows, rushing to add more. "I mean that I don't…I don't know what it's about. And…yeah." She lets out a small cough, disguising her nervousness.

"No, I haven't," he answers, watching her carefully. "Though, I've been watching it for the past fifteen minutes, so I know." She boldly stares back at him, patiently waiting for him to enlighten her, even if she isn't as interested as she sounds. (He isn't, either.)

"It's about general knowledge," he lets her know. She shakes her head at herself. If she was paying attention, she'd notice the questions on the bottom of the screen.

Katniss mulls over how _weird_ being here, like this, feels. It is one of the activities _friends_ would do together. But they aren't friends, are they? She hasn't allowed it yet, since she believes she has a quite good reason not to. She briefly wonders whether he's also thought about it. She asks herself what would happen, if she actually let their forced relationship develop properly. Would he allow it, too, or would he try to restraint like she does now?

He interrupts her messy, complicated train of thought before the quiet has the chance to envelop them completely.

"I've never insulted your family." Of all the things he could have chosen to say, he told her _this_. No wonder there is bewilderment written all over her face. "I've never insulted anyone's family," he explains.

"Wha—what are you talking about, Peeta?" Small wrinkles appear on her forehead.

"Four years ago. I wasn't the one who yelled those things in the hallway. About your sister, I mean. Or…your mother." All of sudden, his throat feels like it's made of cotton.

Understanding crosses Katniss's facial features. "That was four year ago," is all she can manage. What does he expect her to say, anyway?

He starts to speak again, but she is faster, cutting him off. "We don't need to talk about it. It doesn't matter anymore."

"It _does_," he replies.

"No, it doesn't," she insists. "And you know why? Because _Prim_ is the one who's studying to be a doctor now. _Prim_ is the one with a future ahead of her. She hasn't failed." She doesn't glare at him, but her look is so intense that the difference is not too big to tell.

He props his weight on his elbows. "I _know_, Katniss. But talking about this does matter. To _me_." She stares at him. "We didn't make a very nice start." She nods, instantly agreeing with his statement. "You misunderstood facts about me. That's not your fault—I probably knew nothing about you, too."

"Was there something to misunderstand?" she asks him. Her gaze is now trained on the orange curtains instead of him. "Everyone talked this way about my family. There were always _rumors_ nobody cared to stop." She breathes. In, out, in, and out. "They used to say my father married my mother for her money." She shakes her head, looking him straight in the eye. "There was _no_ money, Peeta. My grandparents disinherited her as soon as they were convinced she wouldn't change her mind."

"And you remember all this?" He sounds taken aback, though, there is also suspicion hidden in his tone.

"Of course not," says Katniss. "My mother just…talked to me once. When she realized I couldn't understand why we daily received so much unwanted attention. Prim had suspected the reason from the beginning."

"And she took it lightly compared to you," he fills in. His tone doesn't offend her, nor does his declaration.

"She believes that whatever happens in the past shouldn't always be a part of the present," she confirms.

He waits for her to reach her conclusion. Moments later, she does. "You—or whoever it was—were the first one I heard talking like that. I was caught off guard. That's all." He seems to be working on the information. "I learned not to care as time passed. Thus, I really don't care about what happened _four years_ ago."

Peeta nods in comprehension. He has gotten a taste of her perspective, her complex thoughts, and that's enough for him. He believes her, even if she might not want to accept his excuses.

They don't talk about it again.

His eyes travel over her head and out of the window. The sun isn't going to set for a while. _We have two whole hours_, he estimates.

He stands on his feet, before he walks towards her without hesitation. "Come on," he urges, extending a hand for her to see. He doesn't expect her to take it, yet he intends for it to be an invitation.

Katniss examines his palm carefully. She is partly relieved as she watches it fall back to his side, but is still desperately trying to interpret the two words that have just escaped his mouth.

"Where?" she wonders out loud, her voice full of curiosity.

"I think I can take Madge's place for one day," he muses, a hesitant smile tugging on his lips. _I think I can keep you company_.

She repeats her question, unconvinced. "Where?"

"You'll see," he promises. "Outside. Half a kilometer from here."

_That's not too far,_ she decides.

**.**

**.**

She had forgotten what seeing a real heaven on earth is like.

The colors unfold, dancing in front of her, making it nearly impossible for her to tear her eyes off the scenery and turn around to face Peeta, who's asking for her approval. He has placed the large blanket on the floor of green and stepped next to her in a matter of seconds.

"It's nice," she tells him. "It's like a meadow."

"It is a meadow," he clarifies. "A small one." Katniss is fast enough to catch the nostalgia in his voice. She studies his profile, for he's not looking at her anymore. His gaze is lost somewhere beyond the fields, beyond the horizon. For once, she is the one attempting to apprehend what is going on inside his head, trying to see right through him.

"I'm not hungry," she repeats her words from before, eyeing the basket he's brought with him. She effectively snaps him out of his reverie. She watches him walk to the object she referred to.

"This?" He grips the handle, lifting it to the level of his chin. "It's almost empty." He turns the basket nearly upside down to prove his point. "See?"

She nods as she catches a glimpse of the red apples. She isn't hungry for them, either.

"I used to come here with my father and older brother," he shares.

"You have a brother?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs. "Two of them," he confirms. "Darryl and Tyler." He looks to the ground, as if not knowing what to say anymore, miserably seeking for an outlet.

Katniss offers it to him. "Let's sit, then." He nods, obliging to her suggestion without proceeding to utter further words. He takes a round apple in his fist, looking at it, but not really examining it.

"What did you do?" He lifts his gaze, surprised Katniss was the one to break the tension between them. "When you came here with your family, I mean. How did you kill the time?"

He places the fruit back in the basket and drapes one of his forearms around his knee, hands clasping together. "We didn't just kill the time," he murmurs, already knowing this might be the only thing he and Katniss could do now. "We talked. Father told us stories about the village. We told him stories about our days in school. And Darryl had this blue ball." He smiles. "Sometimes we played, too."

_Sometimes?_ Katniss smiles to herself, for a different reason. It was all she and Prim did for as long as they weren't burdened with liabilities.

"Sounds fun," she says after a while, not wishing to compare his experiences to hers. They must have a specific value to him, right?

He looks at her, eyes unblinking, face brightening at the mention of _fun_. There are thousands of definitions for this single word, yet he instantly approves of what she's chosen to refer to. He trusts her judgment.

"It was," he agrees. He moves closer to her, pointing at a nearby tree. A willow tree, Katniss recognizes. "I'd carved my name there."

"Do you still come here?" she asks curiously. She can effortlessly create the image of a young Peeta (blond curls, blue eyes full of happiness, chubby cheeks and feet—nearly like how Prim was) running, laughing in this meadow. However, he looks too busy, too somber to come here anymore.

"I do," he tells her. She realizes she's interested in hearing what he has to say. "Every time I feel as if I'm forgetting, missing something important. You'll think it's ridiculous." He lets out a humorless half-laugh. "But just _being_ here helps. It's as if I'm finding my way again. Everything's in order."

"I don't think it's ridiculous," she rushes to say. The weight of her words hits her with full force. She is aware that now she's made the start, she has to keep going. "I hate forgetting, too." It is barely above a whisper.

They remain silent for the next couple of minutes. Katniss uproots a blade of grass from the ground, her eyes narrowing at it. She starts cutting it to small pieces. She feels like singing.

"You remind me of my father, you know," he suddenly blurts out. Her hands still, her stare piercing his eyes, strangely warming his insides. "Even when he knew he'd be gone sooner or later, he wasn't afraid of death. Said there was no point in defeating it." He exhales loudly, shaking his head. "He defeated life instead. He told us he was happy. He _seemed_ happy. He managed to live seven months more than they told him he'd live."

Katniss has no clue what all this has to do with her.

"I couldn't remember what having something worth living for is like." He keeps confusing her. "But you _make_ me remember. Every single day. I see how you are around your sister, or even Madge. You care about them deeply." He hasn't seen anyone love so fiercely. He keeps those last thoughts to himself.

She bobs her head in understanding. Suddenly, all she wants to do is ask. She wants to know, because seeing Peeta like _this_, right now, seems so unbelievably unfair. He deserves more than what he has. He deserves his family.

She doesn't hold back. "What happened to your dad?"

Surprisingly enough, he doesn't hold back, either. "They found something in his blood. They didn't even know what it was." Peeta isn't as angry as he once was. He is only disappointed, tired now. "The doctors knew he had little time left. They _knew_ he was going to die, but they had no idea what to do to prevent it from happening." His throat closes.

"When did you find out?" she asks softly, carefully.

"The whole family had heard of the diagnosis from the very start. I remember them being so awfully _quiet _and—" He looks away. "It was my sixteenth birthday. I wanted to thank my father for his present. The bike. My first and last bike," he clarifies. "When I heard my parents whispering—_alone_—I knew something was wrong." Perhaps it was the wrinkles on his father's forehead (those creases made Mr. Mellark seem so _old_), or even his mother's worried—panicked—expression, but Peeta just knew something was different that day.

Katniss drops the chopped blades of grass back down. She notes how she will have to rub her hands meticulously for the green to fade completely from her fingers. She remembers he can't read her thoughts, can't know she's actually listening to him. She decides to focus her attention solely on him.

"I eavesdropped," he continues. "It was wrong, but I still did it. They apparently had no intentions of saying _anything_ to me." The phrases are bitter as they roll of his tongue.

Overwhelming images invade his brain, furiously tangling with one another. Images of his mother spotting him, her brow furrowing with anger, her eyes blazing. Images of him not giving a single damn about her reaction, as there were times he just _couldn't_ control his temper. Images of notebooks flying across the room, pages torn and crumpled, fingers fumbling with a key.

There was a door—it was brown, it _still is_ brown—and his father behind it. Peeta remembers his words—he refused to open up, no matter how hard Mr. Mellark had tried—but can't remember the sound of his voice.

He suddenly panics, for he _has to_ remember. This is why he walked here, this is why he _is_ here, this is why he brought Katniss with him here_; to remember_. He needs to—

Foreign, cool fingers—fingers he's only ever touched once before—graze his hands. Shocked, he turns his head to the left, his gaze colliding with Katniss's troubled one.

"But you're okay now, aren't you?"

He parts his lips, hesitating.

"You're okay right now. Right here." It is more of a statement. To his complete surprise and amazement, she sounds concerned; as if she's trying to convince him nothing is wrong.

It's not like he believes she isn't capable of it. He is just tempted, that's all. He is tempted to long for her attention, this enviable adoration she feels for her sister. Even though she has made it crystal clear he could never compete with her family, he can't help thinking about it.

Once he realizes he's staring at their hands wide-eyed, it's too late to withdraw his fingers from hers. She's noticed and she did it before he had the chance to blink.

"Um. Sorry," she stutters.

He rushes to shake his head. "No, it's okay." He swallows. "I'm okay," he reassures her.

"And I'm sorry for bringing your father's loss up. I didn't mean to upset you," she says honestly.

He sighs and steals a quick glance at the sky. He was too ignorant, too preoccupied to watch the sunset tonight. He missed it. He also missed showing it to her. "It's getting dark," he announces.

Katniss tenses. Did he deliberately avoid answering? Does his silence mean he doesn't approve of her apology?

She jumps to her feet mechanically as soon as she sees him do the same, and watches him sweep the blanket off the ground, folding it. He takes the basket in his hand and Katniss counts the apples—three.

He makes an effort to retract one of them, but isn't sure where to put the blanket.

She steps closer and reaches for it. "Here, let me take this," she offers, watching him closely, hoping he isn't holding anything against her. There is a knot in the pit of her stomach. If she treats him the way he deserves to be treated, if she returns his kind comments and gestures, if she learns how to reciprocate to his rapport, that knot might just be untied.

"Thank you." The sound of his teeth sinking in the fruit signals his excuse to stop talking.

Only, this is no excuse. She's pacing nervously—it's not long before he realizes this is because of him. He really does owe her an explanation.

"I don't mind you bringing anything up." Although he concentrates on biting the apple, he sees her looking at him out of the corner of his eye. "I wouldn't have told you, if I didn't want you to know."

Katniss knows that. If he asked her about her parents now, she would probably pretend there was no question at all. But he _has_ opened up to her and she _does_ feel a strange kind of connection between them. (Is it due to the fact that they're both orphans? She shivers.)

She nods. Seconds before home is in their eyesight, she speaks again. "I'm not as strong as you think I am." He is about to protest. She hugs the blanket with her one arm and lifts a palm to silence him. "At least not always." She drops her hand to her side.

"We all have our bad days," is all he says. And maybe, for now, that's enough.

* * *

**April, Week One**

Hours, days and weeks pass, and the uncomfortable knot in Katniss's stomach is replaced by something different; something unfamiliar, something heartwarming and pleasant. It is strange—she sometimes wishes she could label it, just like everything else—but she finds herself welcoming it with open arms.

When she's at work (she _is_ at work now) she thinks about his baking (his sweets and those cheese buns she adores), or their conversations that have started to become longer and more meaningful, or just him. Then, she always smiles to herself—it's not so difficult to slightly lift the corners of her lips anymore.

Her smiles can either be cheerful or sorrowful.

They've talked about things Katniss hadn't considered sharing with anyone—except Prim, who knows everything—before. She's told him about the locket around her neck, its history and its importance to her. She's told him about her love for trees—like his willow tree—and green. She's told him about words and how much they scare her. (She doesn't tell him she's sometimes scared of the truth, scared of reality, but she implies it.)

And they've shared odd secrets. She knows that, when they're at the meadow, he's like a different person. It is as if he's letting go of everything that pains him, tortures him, troubles him. He refuses to say to her what his family—_his mother mainly_, Katniss infers—did to him, but he does admit there are times when he's trying so hard to love them and can't.

One evening, when the sun went down along with her guard, she recalls showing him the inside of her palm. She drew a thoroughly-shaped heart there, whispering to him that this is how her parents used to say goodnight to their daughters. In reality, the small gesture had a deeper meaning for Katniss. It was a way to be reminded that she was loved, that her family cared about her.

"You injured?"

Katniss nearly jumps from the rock she's sitting on. She visibly relaxes for a couple of seconds, before she remembers her duties as well as responsibilities here.

"Thom," she addresses the man. He is Sae's firstborn son—the only one who has stayed at District Twelve, with her.

Katniss struggles to stand on her feet. "I'm sorry—I know I should have been working, this isn't my break, but I—"

"That's alright," he cuts her off. His eyes travel downwards. He notices how she's rolled the one leg of her pants. "You're injured," he declares. He doesn't ask.

"Just a scratch," she says. She feels the blood trickling down her calf and flinches at Thom's grimace.

He starts to ask how it happened, but refrains from finishing the question. Katniss is pretty grateful for that, as she doesn't want to explain her clumsiness and misfortune to stumble on a nail inside the stall. She probably has to warn Sae next time she catches sight of the sharp obstacle.

He moves his palm towards her direction, gesturing to the other side of the farm. "C'mon," he urges.

Katniss fights her wish to raise an eyebrow. She shoots him a look full of query instead.

"You don't like skin infections, do you?" He offers a toothy smile similar to his mother's. Katniss shakes her head, deciding against lying. "Then, you should sure put some iodine on it."

"Okay."

"Follow me."

Thom's house is small, but comfortable. Katniss hesitates at the threshold, unsure of what she ought to do next. She hears murmurs from inside and imagines him talking to his wife, probably keeping her aware of the situation. Although Katniss has seen Mrs. Mason once, she has never really talked to her. All she knows is that they take her to the hospital in town every once in awhile. She's been pregnant for six months now.

By the time footfalls are heard, Katniss takes a step back, knowing the door will eventually swing open. It does, just like she expected.

"Why are you standing there, Brainless?" the woman asks. Her brown eyes are wide-set, her dark hair short and spiky. She must be in her mid-twenties. Katniss stares at her, unable to form a decent sentence. How is she supposed to reply to this comment of Sae's daughter-in-law without actually offending her?

"Johanna." Her name is similar to a warning as it leaves her husband's mouth. "Come in, Katniss."

Katniss offers a timid nod, copying Thom's actions and moving to the place she supposes is the sitting room. The woman—Johanna—seems to be irritated by how Thom is the one to carry the chair for the girl. Frankly, Katniss doesn't understand why. Shouldn't she feel grateful for having him by side while being in this condition?

Katniss eventually takes the seat and pulls her pants upwards, getting a better view of her injured leg. Her nose wrinkles in displeasure. Blood has somehow always repulsed her.

"It's nothing," she manages to say instead.

"That ain't nothing," Thom argues. "Not until we bring you some iodine." He flees before Katniss has the chance to consider objecting.

"Staring is quite rude, you know." Katniss looks up, surprised. Once realization dawns on her, she can feel her cheeks blazing. She's been—unconsciously—observing the woman's blossoming stomach.

"I'm sorry." She has nothing better to say.

Johanna scoffs, her eyes finally landing on Katniss's wound. "I saw you walking," she announces. "Do your legs hurt or are they crooked?"

Katniss does her best to hold back from gasping at the woman's tactlessness. She never wondered whether her feet are crooked or not. Better yet, she never cared about it.

Thom returns with iodine and cotton in his hands, rescuing Katniss from having to respond in a way she knows she shouldn't.

"Does your leg hurt?" Katniss grits her teeth together, inwardly huffing at the familiarity of the question. She swears she sees Johanna smirk in triumph out of the corner of her eye. She almost immediately shakes her head, ignoring the small ache right above her ankle.

"Johanna, can you bring some water?" Surprisingly enough, Katniss notes that there is no sneer after Thom's request. Only a curt nod and a grimace of contentment. Katniss shudders as soon as she realizes how much like her the woman is; she prefers to be of use, even while she's been carrying a child for half a year.

Katniss is thankful the younger Mrs. Mason is absent from the room nevertheless. Thom's words suggest he sent his wife away for a reason. His apologetic smile only confirms the fact.

"Please, be patient with her, Katniss. She's been a bit upset lately." Right. The hormones. Katniss has no idea how pregnant women can deal with them. For now, she can say she isn't curious to find out at the least.

"That's alright." And it is. She can handle this.

As Katniss receives the wet cloth to wash her wound from Johanna, Thom grabs the chance to clear his throat. His voiced thoughts have been expected.

"How did you fall? 'Cause you fell, didn't you?" he wonders.

"There was a nail I hadn't seen on the ground. I tripped."

A snort is heard and Katniss doesn't have to look up to know who made the mocking sound. She breathes in to calm her nerves. "Calling you brainless wasn't such a mistake, then, huh?"

She dumps the cloth into the bowl with the water. Maybe she _can't_ handle this, after all. "I should probably go."

Katniss feels a strong hand applying pressure on her one shoulder and has no choice but to slump back into the chair. She is rendered speechless while she watches the woman drop carefully to her knees, in front of her. Johanna reaches for Thom's direction, showing him her open palm.

"The iodine," she orders and he complies. Katniss makes no move to press her parted-from-shock lips together. She bites her tongue to keep from hissing for as long as her wound is forcefully cleansed.

"I haven't seen you a lot here." Katniss looks at Thom for help, but he only smiles, shaking his head knowingly in the process.

"I don't work in this part of the farm. I haven't been in this house before," she replies honestly.

"I figured that one out." The woman's movements become gentler by the time she uses the dry, scratchy towel. "You'd better keep your pants this way."

"I know what I have to do," Katniss says defensively, yet not as aggressively as before. "My mother was a healer."

"And she isn't anymore?" Silence. This isn't the first time Katniss has used past tense, and it won't be the last. Even though she's slowly letting go (it's been five months since the car accident—it only makes sense), it still hurts when others notice.

"No." For once, her voice is steady. "She isn't."

"My mother was a healer, too." The woman grips her husband's hand firmly, accepting his help while standing to her feet once more. She offers her free hand to Katniss.

"I'm Johanna."

She nods, taking it in her own, shaking it. "Katniss Everdeen."

"Thom. You're driving Katniss Everdeen home today." She has no time to protest or object. A ride home _would_ be nice. Her feet hurt, anyway.

She thanks the Masons and she means it.

**.**

**.**

Peeta can't seem to help the frown after the doorbell rings and he comes face to face with Katniss. He isn't bothered by the fact that he was interrupted from his baking. What makes the smile slide easily from his lips is the sight beyond the brunette's shoulder; Thom's car.

He doesn't question the presence of Greasy Sae's son in front of the house. He eyes Katniss, speaking slowly. "I wasn't expecting you yet."

Instead of asking herself _why_ he would wait for her or _why_ his blue orbs reflect suspicion as he recognizes Thom, she shrugs. She has nearly quit thinking—or rather _overthinking_—while being around him.

"I wasn't expecting to be back so soon, either," she confesses.

They stare at each other for a good couple of seconds, before Katniss moves towards him, trying to walk past him, even though he's still blocking the biggest part of the entrance. Understanding crosses his features and he steps aside, getting a better view of the old red car. He hears the horn and watches Thom's head pop out of the window.

"He told me to call you for him," Katniss lets him know. He almost jumps when he realizes she's still behind him, the distance between them paltry. She gives him a nod of encouragement.

She soon finds herself in the kitchen, softly sighing at the sight of a full counter. She disposes of her leather bag, placing it on the eating table. She pours some of the liquid soap they use to wash the dishes on her hands and rubs them together, tilting her head towards a non-empty average-sized baking pan.

French apple pie. She's already told him she loves French apple pie. Although she shouldn't let him spoil her as much as he does his guests, she can't truly avoid the upward stretching of her lips.

She doesn't know the recipe—she doesn't know most recipes—but she decides to help him as much as she can. She opens the door of the oven, looking inside, estimating the space the baking pan will occupy. She takes the object in her hands, moving carefully so that her wounded leg doesn't collide or come in contact with anything around the kitchen.

Out of habit (a habit she's developed in the last two or so weeks), she pulls a chair to sit on, patiently observing the raw apple pie inside the oven until Peeta reappears.

"Oh." He halts. "You saw." His eyes flick between her and the counter. His smile is one of those reaching his light-colored eyes. "Thank you."

"No problem," says Katniss. "Might as well have it ready sooner."

His happy grimace turns into a mischievous one. "You mean _eat_ it sooner," he corrects. "You're eating it with me." Alright. He isn't spoiling her unconsciously. He seems to have serious plans about making it happen.

"I'm going to get _fat_," she jokes, his chuckle encouraging her.

"I'm finding problems with imagining you _fat_." He shakes his head. "You'd probably still be pretty, though." He almost bites his tongue, for it has started disobeying his brain at a serious rate.

Time slows down for what seems like centuries. Katniss, unable to stop herself, lets her cloudy eyes grow larger for only a fraction of a second, before they return to their normal size. None of them moves an inch.

"Okay," she eventually replies, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. She should have known she'd be thirsty like she always is after coming back from work.

He arches an eyebrow in disbelief. "So you'll allow it?" She rises from the chair, as she feels more comfortable when they share the same eye level.

She isn't sure what he's talking about, but she tells him nothing concerning her bewilderment. "I—yes—I mean I don't—"

"You'll allow me to call you pretty?" The incredulousness is more than just evident at the moment. She stares at him and he continues. "_Every_ day, _every_ moment I feel like it?"

"What?" she squeaks. "_No_."

He just laughs. "I thought so." His whole face lights up and he jumps as if he remembered something only seconds ago. He fumbles a bag from the bakery that's inside the cupboard he keeps most of his baking ingredients. "Almost forgot." He takes a biscuit out and throws it at her.

Katniss's quick reflexes allow her to dive forward and catch it long before it was intended to reach her. She examines it. "I thought you had those for the little kids?"

"Yeah, the bakery wasn't _that_ crowded today." They are both aware that the word _crowded_ is some kind of a hyperbole for a shop in the market of such a small village.

Katniss spares a look at the cookie in her hand. She has started to doubt the problems he has with imagining her gaining weight. But then again, he always eats with her—or even without her—and his body shape remains the same as before. His metabolism is incredible.

"Hhmhm," she hums while chewing. The dryness in her mouth reminds her of her need to quench her thirst, and she walks to the sink to fill a glass with water. "What did Thom want you for?"

As if on cue, his gaze moves south, staying on her leg. "He told me to make sure you don't walk to the farm in the morning." He meets her eyes. "Johanna insisted on him volunteering to pick you up. I said I could do it, though."

She freezes. "Wait a minute. You could—what are you talking about?"

"I could drop you by the farm tomorrow."

"But you don't have a car," she reasons. Her arguments are futile, since she already knows where this conversation is going.

"You know I don't," he tells her. "I have a bike." She shakes her head furiously. Before she has the time to utter a word, Peeta keeps speaking. "You're scared," he states accusingly, although he isn't really accusing her.

He sighs deeply, closing his eyes for a brief moment, then letting them flutter open again. "_Why_ are you scared? Don't you trust me?" By the time she opens her mouth, nothing comes out. He becomes more specific. "Don't you trust me with this?"

"It's not that," she admits.

"But it could be that, Katniss. I've had this bike for over three years. If you trusted me with it, the rest wouldn't matter," he points out.

_It's not that_, she repeats in her head. She knows that she has faith in him when it comes to such things. She just doesn't know what exactly is holding her back, what makes her feel so biased.

Suddenly, though, Katniss sees he's right. Because he's been here all along. He's been here while she's been successfully taking those tiny and blind, yet solid and sure steps towards him. He's been here to open up to her, to slowly smash the walls around the heart and soul she's been trying so hard to protect. (She wants to believe that, in a way, she's managed to be here for him, too.)

She eventually decides against saying nothing at all, shrugging. "I guess it doesn't matter so much, then." She gnaws her bottom lip and is rewarded with one of his real (her favorite) smiles.

She absent-mindedly tugs on the end of her now short braid and agrees to eat some of the apple pie with him. He suggests they pick a good movie. It's been a while since she's watched one.


	4. Four: April, May, June & July

**Ubeta'd(!)Thank you to everyone who has been so patient or/and added the story to their alers/favs/reviewed.**

Notes:

_#1 There are no words for me to express how sorry I am this has taken forever. Life has gotten in the way, and the update had to be delayed for a bit. I promise you this is the last work-in-progress I post without completing it on the computer first._

_#2 In this chapter, Peeta and Katniss are twenty and turn nineteen respectively. Keep that in mind. _

_#3 Fluff ahead! Although things didn't go as I wanted them to go from the very start, this was _meant_ to be a light story._

_#4 I will gladly welcome your opinion as long as it's not criticising me (instead of my story) or as long as it's not a flame. The preview for the next chapter will be on my profile when it's ready. If you don't have an account, you'll still have access to it. Happy holidays!_

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**Guest: **thanks a lot! I'm sorry this couldn't be soon enough, though.

Words: **10,645 **(Normal word limits: 8,000-14,000)

Disclaimer: _Not mine. Not even close._

Update: 27.12.2012

* * *

**Four: April, May, June and July**

**April, Week One**

Tiny black spots cloud her vision while she makes several efforts to stand on her feet, looking at him without feeling as if the whole world is going round. She grabs his arm and holds onto it for dear life.

This time, he gets off the motorbike instead of watching her from as far as possible—as far as he considers it _safe_ to watch her. This time, he laughs instead of showing the unexplainable worry he first did. And this time, she laughs along, the sound a strange melody drifted by the wind, ringing in his ears, satisfying them both in odd, foreign ways.

"Will you fall?" he asks.

"A minute," she whispers through ragged breaths. "Just give me a minute." It sounds like a promise. In a matter of seconds, her inhalations as well as exhalations manage to subside.

Even though she says she's okay, he doesn't seem to believe her. "Should I catch you?" He tries to raise an eyebrow, but ends up arching both of them in the process of teasing her.

She shakes her head in refusal. "No, I'm okay," she confirms. Peeta recognizes a counterfeit seriousness in her voice, his incredulousness only increasing. His assumptions are confirmed as soon as the muffled-by-her-palm giggles are heard.

"Uh-huh," he feigns agreement. "Are you? Really?" The wide grin stretching from his one ear to the other only betrays him.

"Haven't you felt lightheaded before?"

"Oh, I have," he lets her know, his brows finally furrowing in concentration. "You could have told me to stop." He would have done that; he would have stopped the bike whenever she asked him to.

"I couldn't quite see where we were heading to. My eyes," she trails off, leaving the completion of her unfinished sentence to his imagination.

To her surprise, he fills in. "They were closed." Before she has a single chance to wonder how he can see her while riding the bike (honestly, she's _behind_ him, not in front of him), he continues. "My father had a bike. I once used to be scared, too."

He suggests he'd been keeping his eyes closed as well.

"But they were shut too tight," she explains with a slight frown. He nods in comprehension.

"That's no problem. You'll have to take that into account the next time," he simply says, shrugging, moving back to his bike with one single step.

"Next time," she whispers the repeated words. She likes the taste of them on her tongue—she likes to know there is a future full of good moments ahead of her. However, she can't be sure whether she's willing to live that fear—or her fear_s_ in general—over and over again.

She opens her mouth, and closes it, realizing there's not much she can say. If he senses her hesitance, he chooses not to speak to her about it.

"You'll call me after you're done." Katniss sees how this is no requirement on his part, for an odd kind of question is included.

"Peeta—" she begins to argue with him like she always does (even though she's becoming terrifyingly weaker and weaker—more and more breakable in the way the majority would define as good). Though, she doesn't make it until the end of the sentence she hasn't formed properly inside her head.

"You will," he tries to convince her.

She crosses her arms over her chest. "Don't let me disrupt your daily schedule," she advises. Understanding crosses his features. She continues. "I called Prim last night." She isn't lying. She couldn't, even if she wanted to. "She said it's nothing. Thom wouldn't have allowed me to come to work, had it been serious," she reminds him.

"You're no nuisance. I'm only helping you because I want to," he assures her, his eyes hiding a silent plea. It might have taken him a while to clear things out in his head, though, he's been positive that, for now, all he needs is company. _Her_ company, that is.

She's been so acceptable to his silly, playful, fruitless or even affectionate comments lately, he can't truly afford to give up on trying to approach her—approach her until he can't get any closer. He just has to get her to trust him as much as he trusts her—he is aware there is no time she hasn't told him the truth.

Peeta quickly pushes these thoughts in a dusty corner of his mind. Even though he is not embarrassed for letting them invade him _all the time_, he knows she would be, if he ever shared them with her. They've told each other so many things, and yet they've told each other nothing. There are questions he hasn't dared or found appropriate to ask her, answers he hasn't taken and refuses to take for granted unless he hears the sound of the spoken words reach his ears, unless he watches her lips move as she pronounces them with care, fear or hesitation.

Katniss senses he has misunderstood the meaning of what she has chosen to say, deciding against leaving him to figure everything out on his own. "I like walking," she explains. "I was hoping to walk home tonight rather than have someone transport me."

He nearly doesn't think before replying. "I could walk you home, then," he offers.

She eyes him in disbelief as she hears her own sharp intake of breath. As soon as he notices, his face breaks into an unexplainable smile.

"But," she starts to object, exactly as expected from both him and herself. "You would need to close the bakery a whole hour early," she adds, attempting to understand his intentions. There's really no point in him coming here just to go home afterwards.

"Yes," he agrees. "_However_," he adds after a long pause. She rolls her eyes, amused. "How about we don't follow tradition tonight? I'd like to walk with you." She quirks an eyebrow. "Just this once."

Katniss sighs in defeat. "Just this once," she repeats. "But this _is_ the last time," she rushes to say, then. "I'm saying this for you."

He hasn't gotten used to seeing that she cares about him in her own way, but he could. He could, and maybe—just maybe—he could find himself (his old self) again. Maybe he could win life, like his father used to say. He could follow Mr. Mellark's footsteps in all the right ways, and Katniss could actually _help_ him.

He recognizes him mistake—the mistake to dream, to make plans about a future he might desire, but never really have—long before she speaks. So, it's a heavenly miracle when, instead of offering a dry excuse about her duty to work for Sae, she dismisses him with a promise to meet him after her assistance is not needed at the farm anymore.

The suggestive smile he earns is by far the sweetest one he has ever seen painted on her full lips. He notices how her cheeks are decorated with a shade of red, darker than normal, and how her grey eyes have gained what has been missing all along; a spark of happiness, a spark of fire fuelling her strength as well as determination.

He blinks at her as the corners of her mouth curl upwards to form an unknowing smirk. He feels like a goner.

"Yeah," he whispers, his voice like gravel. "I'll see you tonight."

And maybe he already _is_ a goner.

* * *

**April, Week Two**

Her back collides with something unfamiliar—better yet, someone—but the scream of surprise dies in her throat by the moment she turns around. She comes face to face with the person she never quite expected to see here. Although the farm could also be considered Johanna's property, Katniss has never seen her before and can't come up with an adequate reason to justify her current presence.

Katniss's palm rests over her heart. "I didn't hear you come," she confesses, focusing her attention on her job one more time. She has no reason to be distracted by her employer's family members.

"You mean I scared you," the woman interprets.

"I mean you startled me," the brunette corrects, her expression supporting the difference between the two words. "Everyone else is walking loud enough for me to know they're coming."

"Oh, well, I guess I'm not, Brainless." Katniss frowns at the new nickname. It doesn't bother her _that_ much, though, it isn't how she'd like to be called on a daily basis, either.

"Don't take it personally," Johanna advises and Katniss instantly recognizes the slight indifference in her empty words.

"Is there something in specific you had wanted to talk to me about?" For all Katniss knows, this might be a blunt, awfully awkward introduction to whatever is in this woman's head. She hasn't seen Greasy Sae (only Thom) today. Johanna might have been sent to transfer a message.

But she's not. "I'm talking to you now, Brainless. That is, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I _have_ noticed. And I'm still wondering whether there is something _important_ you had wanted to talk to me about," she clarifies.

Johanna shrugs. "You probably need another break. And I probably need some company to keep myself from slicing my veins out of boredom."

"Your mother has been quite generous with my breaks," Katniss replies. "I'm not sure whether I should take advantage of that."

Johanna snorts. "Touché. But that is also a terribly corny way to decline."

Katniss huffs in despair. She honestly can't tell which the most beneficial decision is. She hasn't even realized what Johanna wants from her. Clearly, the good side of the woman before her doesn't last long when there is no good reason. Katniss does her best not to cringe by the time she is reminded of what _she_ believes in and how _she_ acts. None of them seems to be such a "people person".

Johanna pretends the rejection was never mentioned. "Has anyone given you a tour of the village?" Katniss opens her mouth, but gets the chance to say nothing. "A _proper_ tour of the village."

"I've given a tour of the village myself," she tells her honestly. She never stays in a place for too long—not longer than intended. She knows she will earn nothing but prying glances.

Moments later, Johanna's tongue elicits a clicking sound of mock disapproval. "Not even your boy?" she asks incredulously.

"My boy?" the girl echoes in a tone that betrays the extent of her bewilderment.

Johanna raises an eyebrow, doubting the fact that she _really_ has to explain this. She does nevertheless. "The baker." She shrugs. "Staying home has its perks. You have the time to mind other people's business." She gazes at her nails, pretending to examine them. "You hear about where they go. You hear about their interests. Their preferences. Our fellow villagers still gossip, you know. This is probably never gonna change."

Katniss shakes her head. She has been aware of that.

"Thom happens to visit the bakery quite often. Your boy talks a lot about you. He made me think that, maybe, you're nicer than you seem."

"His name is Peeta," Katniss corrects. He is not _her_ boy. He's more than this—she doesn't _own_ him. "We're roommates," she explains, then.

Johanna shrugs. "Fair enough. Thom and I are roommates, too. I bet he talks _a lot_ about me." She winks. Another shiver shakes Katniss's whole being, despite the hot weather.

"It's not the same. You two are married." She and Peeta are most definitely _not_. The blush coloring her cheeks is too deep to allow her to voice her last thoughts.

She briefly wonders whether she should want to know (because she does) what Peeta would say about her. He's talked about himself, and she's done the same, but there's something _missing_. She hasn't asked him about the reason he accepted her in his house in the first place. She should have.

To her utter and complete surprise, Johanna snickers. "I see," she mumbles under her breath. She clears her throat, raising the volume of her voice. "I insist on showing you the place."

The idea will probably never stop being ridiculous. Katniss has been living here for four whole months.

"Oh, come on," Johanna presses. "You can work on Sunday. It's a day off, isn't it? I'm sure Mother wouldn't mind."

But the problem is that she _can't_ work on Sunday. She has promised to Peeta they will spend the day together. He wants to teach her how to bake bread on her own—she can be useful to things in the kitchen, if she tries hard enough—and she wants to learn. After speaking of books, and books, and books, she feels selfish. She thinks she owes it to him.

Katniss's expression is guarded and sceptical—the woman before her reads it almost immediately. She might have inferred there are already plans, as her next words ring more satisfactory in Katniss's ears.

"Or I could speak to her now. Have you ever paid a visit to the bakery?" Katniss doesn't answer—she only gazes at Johanna quizzically, waiting for her to continue. "Uh-huh," the latter adds indifferently. "Your unawareness only fuels my imagination. _Now_ I know where we shall start from."

Katniss's confusion doubles. "What are you talking about?" she manages to say.

Johanna presses her lips, which form a thin line. "I'm talking about that break I referred to earlier," she answers in a matter-of-fact tone, making everything look as well as sound strangely apparent.

The girl opens her mouth to protest. Johanna, however, beats her to it, interrupting her by speaking first. "Ah, ah, ah." She wiggles her index finger. "I'm not taking _no_ as an answer from the first time I ask you to accompany me out of here."

"I can't work on Sunday," Katniss tells her stubbornly. She is determined to finish the tasks she has been assigned with now, if this means she can stay home when the end of the weekend comes.

"I understand that," Johanna replies. "You'd better wash your hands. We'll stop by your house, if you need clean clothes."

"You are pretty confident," Katniss points out. She almost wants to laugh.

"Maybe because I know when I _should_ be and when I _shouldn't_."

Fair enough. Judging by what she'd heard even before she got the chance to meet Thom's wife, Katniss knew how much of Sae's love Johanna has earned. She doesn't blame the old woman. Johanna's way is abrupt, but earnest. She never seems to say things she doesn't quite mean. She doesn't talk much, unless she feels like messing with one's peace—like what she is doing at the moment.

Katniss might truly opt for escorting Johanna after all.

**.**

**.**

Eventually, she realizes there are shops and people (mainly the owners of them) she really hasn't met, or even seen yet. She allows herself to stare at every new face for a good couple of seconds—only when they are unaware, clueless of her gaze—, as this is exactly what Johanna is doing. Instead of lingering more out of the small shops' windows, though, Johanna's left hand captures Katniss's fingers, both of their feet picking up speed.

Katniss doesn't get the chance to consider what the woman has planned for her, nor is she capable of hindering the events that will follow. She is pretty sure she doesn't want to stop Johanna, as curiosity gets the better of her.

Before she knows it, she is dragged towards the path Johanna clearly wants to take her to, watching the road ahead of her, and preparing herself to turn left as soon as she realizes this is what is expected of her. She barely has the chance to see what and who is around her anymore, in case she needs to memorize the way for later.

She isn't irritated—she isn't annoyed at the least. She feels like laughing. A giggle—a sound she rarely makes—escapes her, betraying her mood. Johanna slows down momentarily, offering a brief explanation, which is accompanied by a nonchalant shrug.

"I'm hungry." Katniss doesn't blame her. Peeta's baking makes her feel hungry even when she thinks she truly isn't.

Her hand soon disconnects with Johanna's, and she stays back, her feet planted on the ground. She stares at the massive crimson sign, her eyes scanning it non-stop, her lips silently forming the name.

_Mellark's._

A smile spreads unconsciously across her face. He has told her he has inherited the bakery from his father. Although she recalls him saying this has been the second home for his family for over sixty-five years, she realizes there might have been several changes as the years passed. The sign, for instance, looks pretty new and well-reserved.

"Well? Are you coming or not?"

She shakes her head. "Yes."

They push the door open and the bell above their heads signals their presence. Katniss frowns at the sight of the dark-haired boy behind the cash machine. His expression is welcoming, his eyes sparkling with eagerness she can't relate to. Disappointment floods her unexpectedly. This is certainly not Peeta.

"What are you doing here?" Johanna inquires, narrowing her eyes at him. "Ditching school again? Does your brother know this time?"

The smile slides from his mouth in a matter of nanoseconds. His brows furrow in exasperation. Katniss infers there must have been details she has missed. She simply ignores the fact, as she has no reason to be involved.

"Just because you caught me once doesn't mean you have to rub it in my face every time you see me," he says in response. "And, _no_, I am not ditching. We just finished early today."

Johanna dismisses his comments with a quick gesture of her hand. "I was teasing, Vick. You're so much like Gale." He huffs, encouraging her. "No need in getting worked up, though. I'm harmless."

He eyes her protruding belly. "Well, obviously." He smirks. His attitude is so much like Gale's, it is almost terrifying. She remembers Prim telling her how Rory—the second brother—was nothing like the eldest Hawthorne. It is still difficult for her to digest the connection between Peeta's best friend and Prim's boyfriend.

"Ugh, just give me something to eat, will you?"

Vick bows dramatically, moving to the glass where Peeta keeps his baked products. "Why, take a pick, ma'am. There is a wide variety of—" He cuts himself off, laughing at her impatient expression.

Their continuous bickering has Katniss clearing her throat so that she will be eventually noticed. Indeed, Vick's gaze betrays he had completely forgotten about her presence there.

"You must be Katniss," he says to her, eyeing her—or more like her hair—carefully, waiting for confirmation. She nods her head, smiling ever so slightly. "Peeta's roommate, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, then, it is nice to finally meet you." His words only confirm Johanna's earlier blabbering. Alright. He might be talking a little about her, after all.

"This." Johanna points at something behind the glass. Vick puts on a pair of nylon transparent gloves that was forgotten on the counter. He reaches to fetch it for her. All Katniss can process, however, is the permission he is just giving her.

"Peeta's frosting a birthday cake. He'll be glad to see you." He gestures towards the direction he urges her to go.

She parts her lips, hesitating for a brief moment. "I—thank you," she replies. She walks past the cash machine, past Vick, past the door she supposes Peeta works. She ignores Johanna's intense stare when she feels it piercing the back of her head. She doesn't look back, until Gale's brother reminds her of her duty to close the door behind her.

She feels the change of the temperature as long as she is seven feet separated from the place which always stays in the customers' view. She touches the back of her neck with a long sigh, thankful her hair is in a braid once more. She has no idea how Peeta works so many hours in the bakery without suffocating.

Katniss spots him almost immediately after her thoughts have nearly come to an end. His back is to her, his dark blue shirt visibly clinging to it as he leans over the cake Vick mentioned. She clears her throat, quite unsure of how to get his attention, but soon realizes it's a miracle the sound manages to reach her ears.

She shakes her head, ready to move beside him, only to be interrupted by his voice.

"Go home, _sunshine_. I'll be done in no more than ten minutes." She doesn't see him roll his eyes, but his tone helps her paint a picture of his expression in her head.

She presses her lips together thoughtfully. "Uhm…" She trails off.

He turns his head towards her in a matter of seconds. His blue eyes are wide as saucers. He drops the piping bag awkwardly right next to the cake. "I thought you were Vick," he explains.

"This is how you call him?" She arches an eyebrow, disbelief written all over her face. Her gaze is more challenging than she probably realizes.

"Sometimes," he admits, smiling wryly at her. He shrugs, receiving her nod in return. Just when the silence is about to stretch between them, he makes the first move to break it. "Did you come here by yourself?" He sounds surprised. He sounds as if he admires her for what she's achieved.

Even though she hates to destroy this impression he has made of her, her answer is truthful. "Johanna—Thom's wife—showed me the way actually. Vick said it was okay to come in."

"Of course it is," he tells her, as she looked like she was waiting for his approval. "I would ask you to stay so we'd go home together, but after that cake is finished, I'm afraid I'll have to deal with sending Vick to rest." He breathes out, turning his back on her again. "He already works on Saturdays. Hazelle will accuse me of wearing him out."

"Maybe he likes it here." She walks around the table he has placed his work on, and studies his features. Small wrinkles appear on his forehead while he attempts to concentrate.

"Hhmhm," he mumbles, pulling the corner of his lip with his teeth, causing an unexpected turmoil inside her chest.

"Maybe he likes your company," she clarifies. Her inference makes sense, doesn't it? Doesn't everyone around him enjoy his unique attitude? Hasn't she learned to do so in this last month?

She presses her temple with her index and middle finger, rubbing in small circles to clear her head. Her internal thoughts have started to drift to where they have never been before at a pretty dangerous rate. The problem is that she never seems to be able to push her emotions away, or slow them down for that matter. Doing so feels just wrong.

"Maybe," he agrees. "I guess I'm very interesting." His words don't match the teasing in his tone, and that's what makes her laugh.

"I guess you are." She suddenly gets the chance to ogle what is in front of her. She is amazed by the scenery as well as the detail of the cake. It is evident Peeta has put much effort to it—the bakery is undoubtedly one of his greatest passions.

"It's beautiful," she praises.

He looks up, his eyes meeting hers in gratification. "Thanks." His averts his gaze one more time. "It's for Leevy's little brother."

Katniss fumbles with the material of her shirt, speechless. She doesn't want to go yet (all she wants to do is sit across from him and watch his hands dance over the little boy's birthday present), but she doesn't know whether he'll be distracted by her presence, either.

"Thank you," he says out of the blue, startling her.

She examines his face thoroughly, clearly baffled. "For what?" she asks.

"For coming," he answers simply. "I wish I could have time for you. Though, the sooner I finish here, the sooner I'll come home. I'm trying to ensure myself a free afternoon," he clarifies. "That is, in case you had something in mind."

No. She didn't—doesn't—have anything in mind, although she is positive she can figure it out later. Madge is visiting the Hawthornes tonight. (She kept complaining about how Gale's sister wanted to meet her, and wasn't sure about her abilities to make an impression to his whole family. Katniss supposed the little girl—Posy Hawthorne—was responsible for that big step in the relationship of Gale and Madge. She isn't precisely familiar with neither the events nor the ups and downs in it.) Thus, there are no second thoughts.

"Okay." She nods, emphasizing what she said. "Johanna had wanted to take me for a walk around the village. I should probably give you space."

"I really do hate pushing you out like this," he insists with a sigh.

"Don't feel guilty, Peeta. Don't make me regret coming to see you." His previous smile turns into one she can't quite name, bringing her urge to shudder to the surface. She adores and fears this new expression of his all the same. It is as if he has developed it solely for her.

"I'll keep that in mind."

She bids him farewell and leaves the room. Johanna is looking expectantly at her, while Vick acknowledges her with a curt movement of his head.

"What took you so long?" Katniss shrugs as they walk out of the bakery. "You still say he's not your boy?" The woman earns one of her most murderous glares. If looks could kill, she would be pretty much dead by now.

Johanna jogs to keep up with her pace, and Katniss immediately slows down, silently reminding herself of the former's condition.

"You're only fooling yourself," she sing-songs. Katniss rolls her eyes. "And him."

"I know," she lies. "I am brainless," she quotes. Eventually, she manages to hide her amusement.

* * *

**May, Week One**

"Why do you think District Twelve is named the way it is?"

The surprise that is now written on his face was expected from the very start Katniss's thoughts had started drifting towards that direction. She had been asking herself the same question over and over again, but considered it too meaningless to share it with anyone else.

The deafening silence was what prompted her to wonder out loud, with nobody but Peeta as an audience. To her luck as well as gratification, he doesn't remain passive. Instead, he seems to mull over what she mentioned, probably attempting to provide her with a decent enough answer. The attention he is giving her, however, is more than enough for her.

She never thought the time when she would ask for it could ever come. As a matter of fact, she never was the one who desperately desired to be noticed. (Quite the opposite actually. All she ever tried and wanted to be was discreet. It wouldn't be too bizarre to say she has partly achieved that.)

But here she is, remaining by Peeta's side, doing laundry. The first time they tried to do this she felt quite weird, as they were both used to taking rows when it came to doing their chores. Though, when she realized that the more practical working with him was, the more time they earned for themselves, she kept finding excuses to be near him.

"I think it's safe to say I'm not the one you should ask," he replies. "I've never been good with figuring these things out." He sighs, fishing one of his T-shirts from the pile of clothes. "That name is not mentioned in any of the history books differently. It seems like it's always been District Twelve."

"Yes," she agrees. "Yes, I know. But why twelve? Why not eight or three or—whatever?"

He chuckles. "I would be lying, if I told you I haven't thought about it. It's either because there were other Districts we don't know about in the past, or just because they wanted to highlight the triviality of a small village."

Tiny wrinkles appear on her forehead. A loose strand of chocolate brown hair escapes her braid, softly falling to the side of her cheek, and Peeta has to remind himself he shouldn't just reach and brush it away. He swallows as he watches her tuck it casually behind her ear.

"Well, I choose to believe the latter."

"That's what I chose, too. The former sounds more like a fairy tale."

"Y-yeah—uh. Uhm. I—" He shoots her a puzzled glance. He examines her face, noting how her cheeks and nose are now painted in a familiar shade of pink. He considers himself incapable of understanding the reason why she's embarrassed until his questioning gaze lands on her lap. She is clutching one of his boxers tightly in her fists, not really knowing what to do with it.

Peeta wants nothing more than to laugh at how differently they tend to act under similar circumstances. Coming across her underwear was nothing unusual or extraordinary, taken what they're doing, yet her reaction now that the roles are reversed surprises him. Katniss might be clever and nothing close to naïve, but she certainly is pure. She is so pure, it's actually _adorable_.

It seems like she has started getting worked up—irritated with her inability to find a way out of this.

"Oh," he exhales, pretending that he hadn't noticed anything seconds ago. "I've been looking for it." He opens his palm, waiting until she carefully places his undergarments on it. "Thank you."

She clears her throat, not fully trusting herself with her voice at the moment. "No problem," she answers. His smile is what eases her agitation, as usual.

"So," he starts.

She looks his way, her left eyebrow barely raised.

"Your birthday is coming up."

Startled, she replies, "You remember?"

He nods, confirming the fact. "The eighth of May, am I correct?" It is her turn to respond with an affirmative shake of her head. "I was wondering whether you had any wishes."

"Wishes?" she asks confused. "As in presents?" she guesses randomly.

"Wishes for presents, yes. I've been trying to come up with something to get you—anything—but it seems like I've finally run out of ideas."

He's not telling her the truth, and she remains completely unaware. He doesn't like lying to her, though, there really is no other option right now. Several gifts have crossed his mind. (Flowers, the kind of jewellery Madge prefers—small and simple, drawings, or anything he has learned from his former female friends that a girl likes.)

The thing is that Katniss's choices and preferences aren't easy to predict. On the contrary, he suspects an expensive or magnificent present will make her feel as if she owes him, as if she needs to pay him back in any possible way. The first step is keeping that in mind and smartly avoiding it from happening as well.

"I don't want a present, Peeta," she says determined. Her tone suggests she is most possibly scolding him in advance. It is like she already knows he won't listen. "I never got you one," she adds.

"That's because we had just started hanging out back then," he reminds her patiently. His birthday was on the third week of March, two days after he first took her to his meadow.

"This is no excuse," she insists, breaking eye-contact. She continues to collect the rest of her clothes in the basket in front of her. She moves much more hurriedly than before. Peeta has no clue what would make her stubbornness fade away for even a couple of seconds.

He skilfully sidesteps the phrase she has uttered. "Come on," he presses. She can practically hear the smile in his voice. "There must be something special. Something you are craving for."

"Well…" Her hands still. His whole face lights up. He has obviously stricken a nerve here. "If you _really_ have to…"

"I want to," he corrects. "It's not a liability."

She sighs, mumbling her answer. He tries his hardest to listen carefully. "A profiterole. One of those little cups you keep at your bakery," she confesses guiltily, her bottom lip meeting her upper one.

"I had no idea you liked profiterole."

"I haven't tried it before," she tells him. "Not from your hands. I—I've wanted to see how it tastes like for a while."

"Why haven't you told me anything before?" She opens her mouth to reply, but closes it once more, knowing fully well his intention to interrupt her. "You should have."

"Do it," she encourages. "Just not today. Or this week."

"The next one," he agrees.

She stands from her kneeling position, bending back down to grab the basket with her soaked clothes, hugging it close to her chest. "I'm taking them to the dryer," she announces. "Don't be too late."

"I won't," he promises. And he isn't. He follows behind her moments later, his own hamper pressed tightly against him. A stripy sock escapes from her bunch of clothing, falling to the floor while she keeps walking towards the staircase.

"I think you missed something." She turns around as soon as he acknowledges her, her eyes automatically drifting to the floor.

"Oh," she breathes. She stares at it for a long time, probably debating with herself about what she ought to do. Her ashen eyes travel from her occupied arms to the abandoned sock.

He gets rid of what he's holding, almost kneeling to the floor to reach it for her—before she has the time to make her decision. What he doesn't know, however, is that she _has_ decided and that she has also started to reach for it.

The top of his head bumps against her nose as he rises. She hisses in surprise, the sound sending a painful pang of guilt through his stomach. He takes the basket from her hands, then rests his palms on her shoulders.

"Hey." Her three middle fingers instinctively fly to the sore spot. She doesn't meet his eyes until he speaks again. "Katniss, hey," he calls. "You okay?"

She shakes her head, surprising him by releasing a soft giggle. "Yes. I'm okay."

Relief washes over him. His thumb brushes her nose, before following the path down the silky, olive complexion of her cheek. He unconsciously pulls her towards him, still staring at the side of her face his finger caressed, her chin, the line of her jaw, her lips.

"I'm sorry." He watches her gulp. He would have let her go, if it weren't for the fact that she—herself—chose to scoot closer.

"It's _okay_, Peeta." She doesn't sound frustrated. Just when he's about to wonder _what_ could possibly affect her to this point, her legs give out under her. The distance between them is almost non-existent now. None of them gets to take advantage of the situation.

Her huff attracts his attention once more. Blue collides with grey. He sees that again—that spark of fire he ignited—and feels warm inside. He stares back with equal fervor, equal intensity. Instead of watching her give up on the silent fight of their gazes smoldering one another's, he watches her embrace it, attempting to make the battle hers (and _hers_ only).

The sound of the phone buzzing against his pocket breaks their brief, invisible—yet strong—bond, making them both antsy. He digs his hand in the case of his pants, cursing himself in the process.

_Gale_.

Peeta presses the red button, dragging his finger across the touch screen. There. All done. He catches Katniss as she notices the name.

"I'll call him later," he tells her. "You need help with those."

"No, I don't. Call him. I got it from here."

He curses himself for a second time in half a minute. Maybe he wasn't the only one who realized what he was about to ask her. Permission for his mouth to melt against hers, that is.

* * *

**May, Week Two**

He's been thinking about it all week; the incident right before the staircase. He's been thinking about her blush and her curious, blazing eyes and her unpredictable laugh and her _lips_ and—

He runs a hand down his face, exhaling soundly. The breath he releases isn't the only thing he has been holding thus far. He has been holding his words and his urges—all of his emotions. He's been trying to cover up any traces of _old_ Peeta—the one who nearly vanished after his father's death—all over again.

Only, this time, he's doing it for an entirely different reason. It's not for himself. It's not because he doesn't want anyone to find out how he's feeling. No, this is for Katniss. This is proof that she has—unconsciously, yet effectively—taught him how to respect choices that aren't his once more.

Today is Sunday. It is her birthday. It would be for the best, if he didn't overanalyze his reaction to every single time they come close to each other (there have been plenty of those moments lately). For now, he needs to be practical. He needs to make sure everything's in order.

But first of all, he needs to relax. Katniss is at work. He has plenty of time.

**.**

**.**

She's silent as always. He hears neither the sound of her keys on the door, nor her footfalls as she approaches the opposite direction from the one he's heading for. He catches sight of her retreating form as he glances at the staircase. In the end, he decides against calling her.

He knows her schedule. He knows her next move.

He waits for her—as she most possibly showers—in the living room, the profiterole cake placed in the middle of the coffee table. He doesn't regret making those preparations for her. He wouldn't want her to return to an empty house, just to find out that no one is there to celebrate her nineteenth birthday with her. He wouldn't want her to go through what _he_ did (repeatedly after his father's death).

Less than twenty minutes later, she reappears in front of him, meeting him in where he has been all along, only to stop, keeping a couple-of-feet distance between them. Her now straight hair is soaked and darker than usual. The lighting of the room falls in her examining eyes in an angle that enhances every different shade of smoky grey.

His stomach flips and he blinks at her. He has a weakness for beauty, it seems.

"_Peeta_," she begins to protest whilst scanning the place. She hasn't forgotten it is her birthday, even if it might look like it. It doesn't take a genius to realize Peeta hasn't forgotten, either, he thinks.

He smiles sheepishly. "Candle or no candle?"

"Wha—But I didn't do anything for you when you had your birthd—" He holds a finger to his lips, effectively silencing her. Katniss crosses her arms over her chest, clearly displeased with her unexpected obedience. He rolls his eyes at her stubbornness, and for a minute, they both seem incapable of giving in.

"Really?" he says after a while, one of his eyebrows arching up. "Is that all you think every time someone tries to surprise you? That you haven't done anything for them in return?"

"Well, not exactly, but—well—_yes_." She growls once she catches sight of his knowing wry smile. She momentarily presses the back of her palms against her closed eyelids. "I mean—_ugh_, thanks."

"You're welcome."

"No, Peeta. You don't understand." Her pupils are wide. "_Thank_ you." She takes a deep breath, still watching him from where she stands. "I was with my family every single year and–and I thought that today—I thought—" She shakes her head, for her voice is suddenly unwilling to compromise. She doesn't get emotional pretty often, but when she does, she doesn't like having an _audience_.

_Peeta is not an audience_, she reminds herself. Peeta remembered her birthday. Peeta remembered her wish, or that cake wouldn't be here now. And finally, Peeta remembers that her parents are no longer with her and her dear sister. Unlike everyone who seems to forget just like that (_how_ can they possibly forget?), he _remembers_.

He remembers how she feels, even though she's barely told him a thing about the last six months of her life. Everything he knows concerns the past, when she could effortlessly consider herself content, if not happy.

Although Katniss opens her mouth to talk to him, to explain one more time, he manages to speak first.

"It's okay, Katniss." She inhales, then nods. "How about you try to convince me my first attempt at a profiterole cake isn't that atrocious?" He gestures towards the short table.

She eyes him in disbelief. "First attempt?" she repeats.

"Technically, yes. I only have profiteroles in plastic cups for the bakery. Nobody has ordered a cake before." He shrugs.

She doesn't tell him that he shouldn't have done this for her, as she is already aware of the fact that he will smoothly dismiss her.

"Alright," she breathes some moments later. Before he can question her, she makes herself clear. "I'll do it. Rightfully so. That cake is _mine_." She points and smiles to herself at his quiet chuckle.

She walks, combing her fingers through her wet hair in the process. She doesn't look back for him from the moment she sits cross-legged on the floor, in front of the table, her back pressed against the lower part of the couch. She reaches forward, for the red box with Peeta's family name on it.

"Impatient, are we?"

She snorts. "Oh, shut up." She smirks and leans forward again.

A part of the olive skin of her waist is exposed and, suddenly, all Peeta wants to do is identify the feel of it under his fingers. He looks away.

It's not long before she notices the troubled creases on his forehead.

"What?" she inquires. He shakes his head, silently promising nothing is wrong. He looks at her to reassure her. She believes him.

He walks and takes his place on the floor, right next to her. He watches her take the box in her lap, before he bumps his shoulder against hers. He does it one more time, until she turns to her right to face him fully.

"Candle or no candle?"

She stares at the small blue object in Peeta's hand for a long time. Eventually, she accepts the offer, the tips of her fingers tickling his palm.

**.**

**.**

"This isn't fair," Katniss muses. She speaks with her head bowed, but loud enough for her roommate—her best friend, really—to hear.

She has been thinking about telling him for a very long time. She has been making efforts to gauge his possible reaction. She has been wondering whether her situation would have such a great effect on him—she would be lying, if she ever said his didn't make her feel for him at all.

Peeta seems interested in what she has to say, yet he doesn't look eager enough to pressure her. She should be thankful about it, although she believes she could make it better, if she had a little help from him.

"I mean—it's like I know you better than the back of my palm, and I still haven't told you _anything_ about my family." That is not entirely true. She's talked about her twin sister, Primrose (the one he met), to him, but that's all.

"Don't go there." He sighs. "You need to stop trying to do things for me because you think you owe me. If that's what you're worried about, you don't."

Frustrating him was not among her intentions. However, instead of settling for a simple agreement, she fights back. After all, she has never been the one to back down.

"I am trying to reciprocate, Peeta." What is the point in a friendship, when only _she_ benefits from it?

"You just have to understand. I don't want to know, if you don't want to tell me."

Katniss bites the spoon that's been in-between her upper and lower lip, her teeth against the metal creating sounds which would normally make her shudder. She lets out a quiet grunt, not caring about appearing superior, or inferior for that matter.

"Well, maybe I wanted—_want_—to," she says after putting the spoon on the table. (Her appetite is gone.) He opens his mouth to object. "Maybe, I want somebody to know." He closes it again.

She hates the way her voice cracks. Better yet, she hates that her voice cracks because she may have been rejected. This is a kind of rejection she hasn't experienced before. Madge always lets her show that she's thankful.

"Don't be upset," he advices gently, as if approaching a wounded animal. "I will hear whatever you have to say as long as it's not forced. And I will ask you whatever I've wanted to as long as you want it, too."

"You've been thinking about—about what?"

"Bikes," he admits. "Your fear for bikes," he clarifies.

"You never told me," she complains.

"Would you be ready to answer?"

She breaks eye-contact. She hasn't been doing that lately—she's been capable of meeting his gaze with no fear. It's not that she's afraid. It's that she knows he's right.

"I am now," she insists.

He has no reason to stop her. He lets her tell him about that day of early November and the party she and Prim attended. He lets her tell him about how she had been having a terrible time at Delly Cartwright's house (she and Katniss didn't even hang around with each other in high school—Delly was Prim's friend). And about how she had called her parents (who weren't at home, but promised to be available for their daughters regardless) to pick her up. And about how she was waiting and waiting and _waiting_, until she had to contact with them once more. Unsuccessfully.

"Dad was always careful on the road. But there was fog and he didn't—he _couldn't_—see the motorcycle. It crashed against the car. The man fell off—he _fell_ _off_ the cliff. The road was just so narrow and he—" She takes a deep breath, finally realizing she has started repeating herself.

The worst of it all is that none of her parents was dead after the accident. Her mother's injuries were much more severe than her father's, though, she was still breathing and there was still _hope_.

Katniss claims that Peeta can't have known what all that wait felt like. How torturous it was for her to expect something or someone stronger than her to fix the mistake she'd done. (If only she had stayed at the party a little longer, if only she had called them one, two, even three hours later.)

But of course he knows what the wait felt like. He still does—the memories will never fade. He's been anything but unfamiliar with hospitals as well as losing the only person who truly cared for him.

"And I'm scared, Peeta," she says in a small voice, pulling her knees to her chest, curling like a ball against the couch. "It's my fault that man's life was taken. I don't want to see this happening again. I don't want to be any guiltier."

He assures her this is not _her_ fault. She couldn't have known. She believes him, even though she already knows the weight of that damn phonecall will be on her shoulders for the rest of the life Peeta will be absent from.

He smiles at her, effectively distracting her for a brief moment. "You can take a break," he promises. "You have the right to think about happy things on your birthday. Everyone does."

Her face contorts into a deep grimace. "I can't think about anything else. Especially today." He recognizes defeat in her voice. "I used to spend Prim's and my birthday with her and my parents."

She's not trying to pretend she's fine, like she always told him at the very start of their blooming relationship—friendship. She isn't okay with this.

"It's awful," she whispers.

He swallows. "I really don't wanna leave you. But—"

"—you're leaving?" Surprise and fear. That's what he hears when her wide grey eyes stare into his blue ones.

"No, no—I'm not leaving _home_. I just forgot something. I'll be back in a minute."

She nods. "Okay." She takes the previously abandoned spoon in her hand, burying it in the leftovers of the profiterole cake, stuffing her mouth with chocolate. She wishes she could just concentrate on the taste of it—she could eat this forever.

By the time Peeta is back, she has finished her third spoonful.

He sits back beside her, nudging her side with his elbow. She prepares a reply for this move of his, but she stops, her mouth hanging open in query. She notices the light blue parcel in his lap.

"Happy birthday." He hands it to her, half-expecting her to protest about his gesture.

But she doesn't. She slowly accepts it, her left hand moving towards him. Her timid expression asks him what her voice can't, and he offers an affirmative movement of his head, encouraging her. She begins to open it, her fingers working carefully and meticulously on the paper wrapping what's inside.

Moments later, she comes face to face with a book—_the_ book. The one she's been so crazy about, the one she's been yearning to acquire for weeks, the one she's been constantly blabbering about.

She holds her breath, as if a single flutter of air will make what's in her hands fade away. She can't take her eyes off the cover, reading the name of the title over and over like a mantra inside her head.

She almost forgets that Peeta is there—that he is the reason why she's feeling so…_overwhelmed_. His voice is slightly nervous as it breaks through the silence.

"Do you like it?"

Does she like it? Hell, _no_. She thinks she's _in love_.

Before she has the time to foresee or realize her actions, she throws her arms around his neck, breathing the words into his shirt, catching him completely off guard. It's not long before he manages to unfreeze from the welcome shock, wrapping his own arms around the middle with a laugh.

The contact—the way they're pressed against each other—makes the warmth spread in Katniss's chest, surrounding her whole being. From the moment the first spark of electricity she has never felt before pulses through her veins she knows. She knows she is not brave enough to be the first to let go.

When her nails begin to sink in his shoulders, when she thinks she might be actually hurting him, it comes; the first hiccup. It is what wrecks the moment, what makes him slowly push her away from him. His look of concern calms her instead of stressing her.

"Are you okay?"

She holds her palm in front of her mouth, trying to suppress the sounds escaping her throat. She shudders again, her body shaking.

"Do you need some water?"

"N-no." He stands up, towering over her. Her hand grasps his forcefully, tugging it down. "No, Peeta, it's alr—"

This time, both hands fly to her mouth.

"It's not like it will put me in trouble," he argues with her unspoken monologue—the one reassuring him he should stay. "Perhaps, _then_, I would consider it."

She very well knows that's a lie. She might have believed him, if he told her that after she moved in this house. He could be a lot of things, and he could have a lot of flaws, though, he isn't selfish. But then again, his whole attitude has changed ever since they visited his meadow for the first time.

"I'll just get some water."

From the moment he is out of her sight, she leads the back of her right palm to her eyes, rubbing the skin furiously. The tears are invisible and elusive—they obviously do not exist—but she _feels_ like crying and that's somehow even worse. (Her hiccups will never come to an end then.)

When he is back for an umpteenth time, and she has drained the last drop of water from the glass, Katniss surprises herself by leaning to the hand he has extended (but hesitated to put on her). She watches his eyes turning wider as his fingers brush against her hair.

She almost asks him what he's thinking about. (She doesn't.)

She is seized by another round of hiccoughs. She can't bring herself to be frustrated anymore. He pulls her to him. He rubs her back until her ragged breathing matches his steady one.

* * *

**June, End of week Four**

An absolutely silly conversation is to blame for the start of an absolutely silly fight.

Katniss can't—she just _can't_—understand why he would take her words so much to heart. It's not like she hadn't taken this decision of hers for granted _before_ she and Madge knocked on his door for the first time.

It's not like she intends to stay with him forever.

It's not like he can stop her from moving out.

It's not like she came here for _him_ in the first place. Things started getting pretty heated—in a bad way—after she told him so. And she was telling the truth. She came here for her sister, and her sister _only_.

He just _happened_. As cruel as it sounds to him, he wasn't part of her plan and he hasn't forgotten. So why the heck would he feel insulted, or upset in the slightest? Why would he make her feel bad—guilty even?

She bites the back of her pen, a habit she thought she'd given up on a couple of years ago. In the meantime, it connects with her head several times. She has started getting worked up over nothing. She should be scribbling down notes to complete her to-do list for when Prim arrives.

The pen moves smoothly over the paper for about five seconds. The next moment it flies across the room, crashing to the wall, eventually falling to the floor.

"_Ugh_."

She pulls at her hair, until it's falling down her back. She re-braids it.

She jumps from her chair, rushing to reach her half-closed door, pushing it open with her palm. She locates his room as she walks, narrowing her eyes at it.

She storms in without even asking for permission. The fact that he doesn't acknowledge her presence—doesn't address her—has her fuming. Instead, he remains focused on the screen of the laptop in his lap.

"I don't understand why you won't _understand_. Or—whatever," she says.

He finally, _finally_, looks at her. He pushes the computer aside, cocking an eyebrow as he meets her blazing gaze.

"I thought you said _there's truly no point in having this conversation anymore, Peeta,_" he repeats word for word, mimicking the tone of her voice.

She folds her arms in front of her chest.

"You know I didn't mean _that_," she replies.

"Actually, I don't. You kind of left me there without another word. You came upstairs." She huffs. "Just—what exactly was I supposed to make of this?" he demands.

"You were supposed to understand me from the very start. I do want your support." He shifts to a sitting position on his bed, but refuses to get up. She, however, won't _yell_ at him. (Not again.)

He runs a hand through his hair. "You'll have it."

She stares at her feet. "Are you ever going to tell me why you're mad at me?" she asks, not daring to get any closer just yet.

His sigh is heard even from where she's standing. "I'm not mad at you, Katniss." She plays with her fingers. "Only disappointed."

"And mad," she mutters under her breath. When he laughs, she can't help looking up. It is a good-natured, genuine laugh.

"A little," he admits.

He closes the lid of his laptop, patting the empty spot beside him on the bed as soon as he sees her approaching him, realizing her intentions. She jumps on the mattress, squirming until she's comfortable enough.

"Why?" she repeats.

"Because you're more than my roommate," he says. She notices how he pronounces the phrases carefully, refraining from expressing himself freely. "And because I care."

"But when I came here, I didn't plan to stay for the rest of my life," she reasons. She wishes she knew why it is so important he _understands._

"I know," he assures her. "I do. And I have no right to make your choices for you." She clasps her hands together in her lap. "But cutting me out after you've moved away from Twelve—I think that means the feelings are not exactly mutual."

This time, she knows better than to consider his chuckle an actual _laugh_. She had no idea. She had no idea he'd need reaffirmation.

But of course he would. She proved to him whatever it is they have is one-sided, despite the fact that she believes—rather strongly—it's not.

She releases a deep sigh, his name caressing her lips.

She supports her weight on her knees as she takes one of his hands, squeezing it tightly, almost painfully. She keeps her gaze focused on his slender fingers as she speaks.

"I care enough to be here," she tells him.

She wants to take that back. It isn't adequate. It isn't right. She tries to fix it in the only way she can.

"I never said I wanted to cut you out. I haven't thought about anything other than how things are _now_." She squeezes one last time, but in the end decides against losing her grip. He remains unmoving. "I'm sure I feel what you feel," she adds hopefully.

"Yeah," he mumbles numbly. "I don't know about that."

She blinks at him, speechless. She doesn't know how she ought to reply, when she doesn't even know what he means.

"You want me to trust you," she reminds him after a while. "So, why can't _you_ trust _me_?"

She doesn't like how this angers her, the effect it has on her. _What_ is one-sided now? _Who_ should be worried?

She wants to turn away, to hide, to flee.

He brings their entwined hands closer to his face. Her palm is flat against his cheek, while his covers it.

"I trust you," he promises. "This is different, though."

"_What_ is different, Peeta?" She withdraws her hand, her fingers slipping through his. "Show me because I don't _get_ it. This is so damn confusing and I don't—"

It _is_ perplexing until suddenly it _isn't_.

He kisses the skin right next to the corner of her lips. She freezes. She relishes the familiar waves of electricity rushing through her, almost blindly locating the source of her foreign excitement.

The way he refuses to create a distance between them, testing both of their boundaries, the way his breathing changes, the way he looks at her through blond eyelashes—everything makes her feel dazed.

The answer to his unspoken question (_is this alright?)_ is the spontaneous dive towards him. It is his relief and her nearly inaudible gasp, his thumb flowing over her neck and her innumerable thoughts that cease to run wildly inside her head.

His lips move against hers gingerly as if a single snap of fingers will break her. Before she finds the chance to be irked by the way he's confronting her, and before she has the time to take the initiative, he draws her close until she can retaliate the pressure.

Her fists close around tufts of his golden hair. She makes a miserable attempt at explaining all this, but she can't even form a decent sentence. All she can seem to think about is how she has waited for six whole months to feel _this_. To be consumed by this.

She gasps again. She pushes his chest, hindering him from proceeding any further. Her eyes are wide—almost panicked—and her breathing heavy.

"Shh," he whispers, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Calm down."

She begins to protest. "It's—"

"—Prim, I know. You told me she'd come."

Her sister is calling them from the lower floor. Katniss had given her keys. He stands from the bed, combing a hand through his head. He presses his lips together as if sealing the kiss, and she just shamelessly stares.

"I'm going. You calm down first." His face breaks into a grin.

"Yes," she agrees. She closes her eyes. "Yes," she echoes.

By the time she's reopened them, he has disappeared.

She feels…_giddy_. (Which is not precisely her, but she _likes_ it.) Peeta's right. She needs to calm down. And then figure out how on earth that just happened.

* * *

**July, Week One**

It is Wednesday. A day off. That can only mean one thing after last night.

Last night.

Her sister must have noticed something had changed between her and Peeta. Prim's glances and small smiles betrayed the extent of her knowledge about that _something_.

Yet she didn't say a word. For once, Katniss couldn't bring the issue up or even discuss it with her. She needed time. She _needs_ the time to know what this means, to ask herself what it might have been for Peeta, to prevent herself from freaking out.

And it is _good_. Because she doesn't need to let the grief engulf her anymore. She can be anxious about other things—less important, almost impractical things. She can escape from the cruel reality of having to earn so that she and her sister can have an acceptable life. She can remember that the little money Prim has collected from babysitting her best friend's niece are enough and _believe_ it.

By the time the clock strikes noon, she has reached the middle of the book Peeta gave her on her birthday for a third time.

The phone rings several times, before Katniss remembers she's alone in the house. Peeta is at work, while her sister promised to be back in a few hours. She closes her book without bothering to find a bookmark—for once she doesn't mind being interrupted. She hadn't been paying much attention to the book anyway.

She touches the receiver against her ear, leaning lazily towards the wall.

"Hello?"

"Katniss, thank God! I've been trying to call you for hours! What's wrong with your mobile?" She must have known by now that Katniss isn't _that_ consistent when it comes to charging her phone.

"Madge?"

"Yes!" she screeches. Katniss winces. She recognizes the sound on the background. Her frown deepens.

"Are you driving?" She tenses. Why would she call her while _driving_?

"Yes, I'm on my way. I'm coming. I'm—just be ready in five minutes, okay? I'll be there." There's a pause. "Katniss, can you hear me?"

"I can," she confirms. "What's wrong?"

"Prim," she breathes. Katniss doesn't like how she pronounces her sister's name. There's something behind it—something that has her pulling her lower lip between her teeth.

"Is she with you?" she asks carefully.

"No, she isn't. Damn it, Katniss. Get. Out of there. She's at a freaking _hospital_."

"Wha—she's—_what_?"

"You weren't answering your phone. Her friend called me and told me about—"

She feels as if she's underwater. Every single trace of nervousness and happiness combined has come crumbling down. She only catches a couple of words through the phone. They are enough to make her knees buckle.

_Wanted to try. Motorbike. Hit her head. Hospital. Five minutes. _

It is happening again.

She's going to watch her sister—the only family she's left—die. She won't survive this. She can't. She was only lying to herself. Life simply _can't_ be good for some people.

She _is_ one of those people. She had been ignorant—she had been kissing Peeta, for heaven's sake. Hell, _why_ did she kiss Peeta?

She wants to scream, but her throat is too sore. Sore from the unshed tears, the tears that will never fall.

The five minutes are over. She can hear the horn from outside. Madge, like always, has kept her promise.


	5. Five: July

**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed/subscribed/favorited/waited for an update. Your support means more than you can imagine.**

Notes:

_#1 one more chapter for this story to be marked complete. This part is written in Madge's (only the first few lines) and Katniss's point of view. Your opinion matters (it always does), so any kind of comments are more than welcome._

_#2 the preview for the last chapter will be on my blog in a couple of minutes. Link on my profile, if you're interested:)_

Words: **8,734**

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing.

Update: 06.02.2013

* * *

**July, Week One**

"This is the last time I've told you, Katniss."

Madge has never looked like this; demanding, uncooperative, irritated to the point of being incapable of suffering the twins' peculiarities. But here she is now, grasping the door of the car her friend refuses to abandon, until her knuckles turn white.

And she really isn't like this. But she's lost too much—too many people—already to let it go. Tonight and till the moment Primrose is not in her hospital bed anymore—because she's strong, she's always been strong, and she _can_ get out of there—it is going to be _her_ way. Madge's way, that is.

"Don't make me call Peeta," she warns.

She knows that the mention of her cousin's name will have a decent effect on Katniss, if not a major one. She also knows how real and valid her threat is, the dim light from behind the curtains of the house giving her the proof she needs.

"I want to go back," Katniss pleads. If the blonde's heart was already broken, now it's ultimately crumpled. It is what she wants, too. But she can't leave the girl alone in the hospital. Sadly, she doesn't _trust_ her to be alone.

"You need to eat something. You need to get clothes," Madge reminds her, her voice soft as a feather.

"What if Prim wakes? I have to be there for her when she wakes." She whispers the last part, her gaze unfocused, her eyes wide open. It is as if she is trying to impose this more on herself than anybody else.

Madge opens her mouth to tell her that it won't be that simple. To tell her that Prim is a comatose patient with minimal hopes of opening her eyes at all, let alone any time soon. Although Madge knows how capable Prim can be, her faith can only last so long. Someone owes to believe in her—truly believe in her—and if that someone isn't her sister, then who should it be?

She touches Katniss's shoulder. "Come on," she urges. "Please."

The response is not immediate, yet it's there. Katniss leaves her seat, balancing herself on her feet. She has no other choice but to obey.

"Let's get inside." She follows the brunette right after she has taken her first step forward, not bothering with locking the car. She closes her fist tightly around the keys, walking by Katniss's side, preparing herself to support her in case anything goes more wrong than it already is.

By the time they step foot on the threshold, Madge's hand reaches for the doorbell. She is reminded of a time when she'd have to convince Katniss standing here was for her own good. Quite frankly, she supposes there is no big difference between what she was and _is_ trying to accomplish.

Only, this time, she feels as if she's fooling her.

The circumstances are undoubtedly worse. The irony of the situation hits her with full force. No one needs to be particularly clever to realize her words oppose to her thoughts.

The door sliding open is what alarms her, and the pale face of a worried-sick Peeta greets them both.

"_Katniss_," he protests, his voice screaming disgruntlement as well as exhaustion. "It is ten p.m. and I've almost gone insane. I've called _you_, your sister, Mrs Mason to see if you were at work for _any_ reason, _Madge_ who apparently wasn't aware, and Gale who had absolutely no clue of where his girlfriend might be."

The deafening silence that follows his sudden pause is what alters his facial expression. His features soften, his shallow breathing becoming more and more controlled as he observes Katniss blankly staring at the mat, silently requiring answers from Madge.

She purposefully doesn't break his gaze, fearing of pronouncing any phrases that will have the dark-haired girl falling apart before their very eyes.

"I think I need to make my things," Katniss announces, somehow making her way past Peeta who is too troubled by her reaction to hold her back. Madge can only be thankful (and then guilty for hoping she could talk to her cousin alone).

"Come on in," Peeta sighs, most possibly letting the facts kick in one by one, knowing he is in need of being enlightened about what might be going on.

"Thanks," Madge mutters, accepting his invitation. As she steps in, walking further, she seeks for her girl friend.

Katniss is nowhere to be seen.

"Madge," he pleads. She turns around, facing him. "Why are you acting like this?" he wants to know. "_Both_ of you."

She inhales deeply. "Prim had an accident. She hit her head."

"What do you mean _she hit her head_? How bad?" he asks.

She only shakes her head.

"How bad, Madge?" he presses, his azure eyes narrowing dangerously at her.

"Concussion. She's in a coma," she whispers in response, unable to make the small wrinkles in-between her brows vanish. She balances herself on the tip of her toes, looking over his shoulder. "I need to make sure Katniss won't do anything stupid," she mumbles in her distress.

"Hold on, hold on," he says, preventing her from walking forward. "_Coma_?" he quotes in pure disbelief. "How on earth did that even happen?"

"Tried to ride a friend's motorbike. Katniss had been pretty persistent with giving her 'the talk' but—_I don't know_, Peeta."

Judging by his horror-stricken expression, Madge concludes he's been told more than enough about his roommate's parents' accident. He seems to be at a loss of words for a moment, although he is the one to speak before her.

"What about the helmet?" She recognizes the emotion she had seen painted in Katniss's eyes; _hope_. (The only thing that can be stronger than the fear threatening to crush them.)

"I can't tell if there was a helmet. That wouldn't even cross my mind," she admits sadly. "These people are not _you_. They don't necessarily take such things for granted," she explains, justifying the potential reasoning of Prim's friend.

He looks away, as if slowly digesting the information.

"I'm coming with you," he eventually tells her, determination lacing the tone of his voice.

"No, Peeta. This is not going to work." He doesn't let her continue voicing the rest of her thoughts.

"I won't just _leave_ her. She doesn't have to deal with this on her own," he insists. He doesn't need to elaborate. Perhaps, he loves Katniss as much as Madge does. She could decide she trusts him on it.

"Which is why you would be more helpful holding her here." _Anchoring_ her here. "You don't get it, Peeta. Prim might never wake up again. Even if she does, she might never be capable of walking or completing her medical studies or doing _anything_ she could before the head trauma." Her hand squeezes his bicep. "You know how my mother have been since aunt Maysilee's death. Do you want to watch Katniss transform into her? A ghost?"

Harsher words—words to characterize Mrs Undersee's condition—invade her head, but in the end they seem to die in her throat. Right now, all she needs to do is focus on Katniss.

"It's not in my power to help Prim. But if I can save at least one of them, I'll do it." She wouldn't let the chance slip from her grip.

It doesn't take long for realization to dawn on her, after Peeta's gaze has travelled across the hallway, breaking their eye-contact. He takes a deep breath, his hand twitching by his side, as if aching to reach for the brunette.

"Go home, Madge," she says, her voice hoarse.

The blonde shakes her head. "I'll stay here tonight. We will—"

"—Just go _home_, Madge." Her eyes fly open. "I can handle myself."

She wonders how much of their conversation Katniss has managed to overhear. Her face heats up, while the urge to bow her head finally overcomes her. She has never wanted to go against Katniss's free will, never wanted to impose her opinion on her. She has never actually doubted Katniss is responsible for herself, yet there have been multiple times when she simply had to accept assistance to hold it together.

"Are you sure?"

"Madge, it's okay," Peeta nods twice, reassuring her. "I am not going anywhere."

Katniss crosses her arms over her front, abstractedly shooting daggers at the floor. "I'll be fine."

As she moves near her, Madge envelopes her rigid form nonetheless.

"Okay," she answers, forcing a tight smile to her lips, for the sake of Katniss's curiosity. "I'll be back tomorrow. Get some things ready in case you decide to stay with Prim for a while."

She bobs her head in agreement.

"Peeta, please—"

"—Madge," he scolds. "I know," he mouths.

If something—_anything_—goes wrong, they will call her, she reminds herself. Another night of insomnia will not hurt her. After all, it is what she has learnt to tolerate the most.

.

.

Besides the stirring of the spoon inside the intact soup in front of her, and the hand of the clock signaling that the seconds haven't ceased ticking away, the sounds to be heard are minimal.

This is why the scratching of the chair against the kitchen tiles from her left attracts her attention to the point of nearly looking up. _Nearly_.

There is silence for the next few moments, and she chooses to neglect the fact that his presence would, under normal circumstances, have her feel slightly better. However, it doesn't exactly go unnoticed by him.

"Does it taste so bad?"

She knows he isn't waiting for a positive answer. It is evident she hasn't touched her food yet and has no intentions of doing so in the near future.

A light gust of air passes through his lips, and it isn't that long before she feels fingers tracing the outline of her arm. The contact gives her goosebumps she cannot quite ignore, despite her current refusal to accept help. She bites the inside of her cheek hard, not even bothering about the metallic taste of blood that could have inundated her mouth afterwards.

"Come on, Katniss," he prompts. His hand falls back on the table, eliciting a _thump_, which is loud enough for her to notice. He recognizes the tensing of her shoulders, the defensive clench of her jaw.

His voice is soft, barely above a whisper.

"You need to eat something," he reminds her of what she already knows, what she's already heard repeatedly from Madge. "_Anything_," he adds. "I just—I don't know what to do."

"I want to be alone," she lies, pointlessly gazing at the floor. She doesn't _want_ him to leave her, but it only makes sense to her. Her sister is practically fighting on her own. Katniss doesn't _deserve_ this sort of assistance from him, not when she's determined to give up on whatever he might have wanted their perplexing relationship to turn into.

And she can't just think about it during a time like this. Perhaps she never was meant to be able to handle the pressure of caring about someone more than necessary.

However, Peeta doesn't leave her as she had originally expected.

"Okay," he agrees. "Okay. But you have to eat first. Please. It could be good for you."

She presses her closed eyelids with some of her fingers, not liking the way he is forced to be there for her in the least bit. Maybe he doesn't feel compelled, but none of this would have happened if she never joined him in this house in the first place.

She hears his long exhalation.

"I hate pushing you like this," he confesses. She recognizes the pure truth in his words and wishes he would just listen when she implied he should have left the room. "The more energy you have, the better you can cope with all this," he points out.

She sniffs. "I only want to be with her. I won't make it until tomorrow morning."

Her whole body trembles, yet small, temporary waves of relief flood her at the very thought of not meeting the blue of his eyes. She thinks that if she faces him, every trace of sanity and control will be utterly demolished.

He seems to consider what she has uttered for a minute, before he speaks again. She is surprised enough by his suggestion to look up.

"Then, don't wait until tomorrow morning." She musters all the courage she is left, blinking at him, silently praying he will elaborate further. And he does.

He motions to her full dish. "Eat. We are going to town."

Before she can obey to his advice, consuming what might not even survive inside her stomach, she freezes. Her heart begins to drum painfully fast in her chest. She is scared.

She is horrified and she doesn't hesitate to conceal the fact. Because the only way to get to her sister is with Peeta. And that would mean—

Peeta shakes his head furiously, pupils dilating as realization hits him. "_No_, not like this," he rushes to explain. A comforting hand reaches out to touch her, but it stops midway. It is as if he doesn't know her limits, doesn't know what buttons to press or where they're at.

"No bike," he promises gently, carefully. She is thankful he is aware of the lines he isn't allowed to cross, the lines she has drawn between them (and everyone else for that matter) in less than twenty-four hours. "We'll take the last bus."

She achieves a small, repetitive nod. "My things are ready," she mutters.

He swallows, his palms pushing the surface of the table to help him stand on his feet once again. "Good."

He doesn't tell her the bus leaves in less than half an hour. He won't have to.

Even though the guilt slowly starts fading away, the agony remains there, threatening to overcome her, cruelly burning her insides.

_She is going to see Primrose. _

**.**

**.**

It turns out Prim is not on her own.

Katniss recognizes him—the boy with the elbows resting on his thighs, fingers knotting through fingers—from the dark hair and the somewhat familiar body posture. She recalls seeing numerous photos of him (or him _and_ Prim) in the past; Rory Hawthorne.

He might not resemble his older brother as much as Vick does, yet it is hard to say he could belong to a different family.

As soon as his gaze falls on her approaching figure, he seems to recognize her as well, because he jumps from the pale green seat and proceeds to meet her halfway.

"Katniss?" he acknowledges her first, then peers over her shoulder to call Peeta's name. He had been so silent throughout the entire bus route, she had nearly forgotten about him.

Katniss wonders whether Prim had ever shown her boyfriend—Rory—pictures of her. He has never laid his eyes on her personally. Not until now.

She decides to nod, confirming that _yes, she is here._ When he offers his hand she has no choice but to take it in one of hers, gripping it tightly and letting go.

"We haven't had the chance to meet properly," he tells her. "I'm Rory," he adds. His brows furrow, as if he is debating whether to refer to Prim or not.

She nods again. This is not a good time for introductions.

"Where is she?" she snaps. Right now, she cares about nothing other than the whereabouts of her sister.

Gale's brother talks to her about what she already knows from her first visit and what she apparently doesn't. The more he talks, the more she panics. He advises her to speak to a doctor, for he is neither a reliable source to transmit detailed information, nor a close member of Prim's family. He, of course, has no clue of her medical history.

He doesn't look as tired and devastated as Katniss feels. Though, he sure looks nervous.

What adds to the anger slowly welling inside of her is the fact that Prim has been in this hospital _hours_ before Katniss was told there was an accident.

Her head injuries had been evaluated _long_ before Katniss arrived.

Which leads her to believe they (Rory and Rue—Prim's friends) waited to notify her until things got bad. Which is absurd. Which is not what truly happened.

Which blurs her head that is nowhere near clear to the point of wanting to throw herself at the person in front of her, the claw at his face, to wrap her fingers around his throat so that he won't have to speak anymore (or use that false polite voice she should, but honestly _can't_ use every time she's trying to be polite with people she doesn't like).

She feels Peeta, who has somehow perfected the skill of sneaking up on her, pressing a hand to the small of her back, attempting to bring her back from whatever frenzy she's into. His second hand squeezes the spot—the juncture between her shoulder and neck—that always seems to be tense.

It is a warning similar to the single word he hisses in her ear.

"_Easy_."

"She's been transferred to a room temporarily," Rory answers, his eyes instinctively following the path of Peeta's movements. She pulls away from the sweet heat he emits, in fear of suffocating (because this is all too much for her).

"Do they allow visits?" he asks for her shake, stealing the question from her lips, as if reading her mind.

The raven-haired boy shakes his head, pressing his lips together. "Believe me when I say I wouldn't be here, if they did." His reply does nothing to soothe Katniss. There is a pang in her stomach which lurches for the umpteenth time today.

"Why not?" Maybe letting Peeta do the speaking isn't such a wise option, since _she_ is the sister, _she_ is the one who should express their worried emotions about everything, but she can't promise she trusts herself.

Then, she's angry at him for making him feel like she needs him.

It is the way it's always been. She lets the fury control her, be an integral part of her. She seethes the grief as well as the sorrow into it, cloaking the frailty like the darkness cloaks the light every time the sun sets.

No answer comes from Rory—just another shake of his head.

What does that even supposed to _mean_?

Peeta nods in what she considers _comprehension_ and thanks him. "We'll be back in a couple of minutes."

"No," she refuses, folding her arms in front of her. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay here until someone comes to tell me when Prim is going to recover."

Rory almost immediately looks down, averting his gaze. If it was _his_ bike that did this to Prim, it would have taken her roommate a lot more than touching her back to help her get a good grip on reality.

Speaking of which— "It's only a couple of minutes, Katniss. We need coffee." His voice hasn't sounded more persistent since the first time she realized she truly knew things about him.

Before she can protest or object, he pulls her hand in his, his shoes sliding against the material of the floor, the odd sound his feet elicit attracting attention. A nurse—dressed in that sickening white—hurriedly walks by, eyeing them suspiciously, yet quickly losing interest.

Resistance is futile. As the thought passes through her mind, Peeta pulls her closer, his hand tightly enclosing her fingers.

"Don't make a scene."

She would have expected words of comfort and consolation. She would have expected a near-hug. But not this.

She bites her lower lip, shivering, nodding. She speeds up to match his steps, not daring to tell him no whiff of coffee will rescue her from the odor of medicine and chlorine—or erase it completely from her memory for that matter.

She steps into the elevator after him, ready to be consumed by _her_ distress. However, she can't help the way her heart clenches for _him_ as she watches him.

She doesn't know what worries her the most; his iron grip on the silver metal bar, his horrid effort at shutting his eyes, or his determination to face away from her so that she won't question him.

The eyes of their reflection meet. It is obvious he's trying his best to offer a smile—a smile that feels as out of place as ever.

"I've made this route more times than I can count," says Peeta. "Elevators keep making me claustrophobic since then."

Although he doesn't explain, she knows what he's referring to. There had been a time when he came here daily. For the sake of his ill father. The father who is gone. The father whose loss has changed him.

The doors slide open, but none of them makes a move.

"We could have used the stairs to get to the second floor." She wishes there was more to say.

"It's okay," he promises. "We're here now. That's all that matters."

On their way to the cafeteria, she successfully gets to wonder about the only bakery of the village. She hates how many people depend on her and her sister's situation, as he confirms he will stay with her for as long as she wants him to.

By the time they have bought the drink they agreed to share, and they have returned to the first floor by descending the stairs, Katniss is ready to hear any kind of instructions.

Because Prim will open her eyes before any of them has the chance to realize it.

Or so she thinks.

**.**

**.**

They return home one and a half days later.

It is late afternoon and Katniss unexpectedly—unwittingly—notes how the orange rays of the sun filter through the light-colored curtains as she walks towards the main way leading to her room, the only place she thinks she can call sanctuary after all she's been going through.

Stopping to see whether or not Peeta has passed the threshold is out of the question. Even though _he_ had been there for her and nobody else, he hadn't been capable of avoiding what _he_ went through. (After all, it had been two whole years of him shunning the hospital in town like the plague.)

They need time alone. They need the privacy they gradually stole from each other.

So, she climbs upstairs as fast as her sore feet will allow, saving her mind from more trouble. Better yet, saving her heart from more pain. (He cannot tell her he is better off without her right now, if he cannot find her.)

Unlike the rest of the showers she's had in this house, this one is short and cold. She scrubs herself clean forcefully, furiously chanting obscenities until the distinctive hospital smell has ultimately evanesced.

She is in the process of putting on her soft yellow tank top, when she hears a knock at the door. She whispers words she is sure Peeta can't hear from the other end of the door, hastily dressing for the upcoming night.

He calls her name before she has the time to grip the handle of her bedroom door. She creates a crevice, which is simply enough for his eyes to take her in.

"'Just wanted to see if you're alright," he admits sheepishly. There are faint dark purple circles under his eyes. He blinks tiredly at her, waiting for her answer. She is positive she looks the same way, if not worse.

"Okay," says Katniss, her voice raspy, her throat closing up.

"Go to bed," he encourages. "They'll call us, if anything important happens."

She nods again.

He sighs. "Can you keep your door unlocked tonight?" She never locks her door. It is just a measurement he seems to be taking, a precaution. He trusts her. But not enough, a voice inside her head rustles. "Can you please do that?"

"I will," she fails at assuring him. In reality, her inability to sound cogent has nothing to do with her reluctance to listen to him, even if she sometimes does tend to defy him (the way she defies everybody else).

As soon as the door is shut, and there's a barrier between them once again, her hand doesn't hover over the lock, not even for one single moment. She hears him retreat several steps whilst she practically drags herself forward, blindly caressing the soft covers of her bed once she's reached it.

She places a palm flat on her stomach, clenching her fist around the fabric in discomfort. The waves of dizziness hit her one by one, disallowing her to neglect the feeling she gets every time she's completely washed-out. Her wet hair does nothing but exacerbate it.

She kicks the cool sheets till the moment she's under them. She hugs her pillow with one arm, burying her face in it.

And screams.

Every sound she makes is muffled along with her prayers, never reaching the world's ears.

Because she didn't want or intend for any of this to happen. Because Prim is likely to never wake up. Because even if she does, she might never walk or speak again. Because she might be incapable of completing her studies. All the sisters' struggle has been in vain.

She is too restless to just settle for closing her blurry eyes. But then again, she's too tired to fight against the slumber that is quickly, and effectively, pulling her under.

She wishes she could just cry herself to sleep.

**.**

**.**

After hours of inner debating with herself, Katniss comes to a conclusion different from the one of staying inside.

It was what she and Prim had promised to each other that made the decision so much easier for her to make. Consider she never goes back on her word, Katniss knows she can't give up on her daily duties. She owes it to her sister—she knows it is what she would have wanted her to do, had she been in the position to have a say in this.

Moreover, she might have been allowed to take a couple of days off, but taking advantage of Sae's magnanimity isn't exactly a very wise option. She cannot be fired from her job. Not again.

Just when she is about to put on a pair of shoes, Peeta's voice makes her halt.

"Katniss, wait!" he calls, hurriedly walking to her side, almost running to prevent her from preparing to exit the house. She does wait for him with patience. There should be plenty of that, if she intends on surviving the current situation, right?

"I called Thom," he says, breathing heavily for a second. "To let him know if he needed anything from the bakery today, I would be there," he explains, then. "He said to tell you not to go to work. Have some more rest."

Wrinkles of confusion begin to form on her forehead. She _must_ work today. It will be good for her, if she does. It will make the agonizing wait much more practicable for her. It will mean she could actually succeed in keeping her promise to Prim.

"But—I'm ready." She bobs her head in confirmation, gaining confidence as she continues speaking. "I can do this."

He offers a sorrowful smile. "You can," he agrees. "But the point is that no one will be in the farm once you get there."

Her bewilderment only doubles. _Why not?_ She rushes to voice her obvious question.

"They're all at the hospital right now. And I think they will be for a while." He sees her horror-stricken expression, quickly waving his hands between them to help her make any sort of negative ideas disappear.

"Johanna has gone into labor. That's all," says Peeta.

"Oh." She feels like an idiot, standing there, her mouth opening and closing, even though no words are tumbling out of it.

Correction. She feels like a _jealous_ idiot. Not because she would like to be in the woman's shoes (not even close), but because there are people who visit the hospital for delightful reasons. _Happy_ people who become _happy_ mothers and fathers, who deliver _happy_ babies and raise _happy_ children.

_She_ was happy once. When her father sang to her. When her mother first taught her how to spell her name right. On her first day to school. Every time she added a new book to her personal library. Whenever she and her sister did something—_anything_—that would please both of them. When she was graduated from high school. When she decided she would find a job instead of studying in college like Prim (and her parents supported that wish of hers).

Peeta breaks her out of her reverie before she is sure she can let the memories, the illusion of being happy go. In the end, she is sure about absolutely nothing.

"I should be going," he reminds her. He shoots a wary glance her way, and she realizes she should probably reply to him.

"I'll be fine," she mumbles, answering his unspoken inquiry. His pursed lips do nothing to hide the extent of his doubtfulness, nor does his thoughtful expression, which slowly transforms into one of concern.

He must be unaware this is going to wear him out. Worrying for her, that is. Really, what has it caused him thus far?

Only trouble.

"Okay. But if you need anything—if you ask me to stay—"

"—I'm not going to," she interrupts him with a shake of her head.

"Okay," he echoes, dropping his hands to each one of his sides in defeat. It's not too long before he turns his back on her, surely planning on fetching anything he might need to take with him at work.

After he is out of her eyesight, she literally runs to her still dark room (the sun has risen by now, but the shutters are closed), saving him from confronting her one more time and, therefore, feeling obliged to reconsider.

If her bed wasn't already made, she would jump right in. Eventually, she opts for lying on the mattress, turning her head to the right angle so that she is facing the wall, her soft outtake of breath caressing the skin of her arm.

Katniss's hand curls around the phone buzzing on her nightstand moments after the persistent sound first starts. She is greeted with Madge's name.

But not her voice.

She places the device back on the furniture, facing away from it. She is not ready to talk about a mood she cannot quite put a label to. She also knows it would have taken more than a simple call from her friend, if something noteworthy had happened.

Her phone buzzes again, alerting her, informing her about a new message.

Having completely lost track of time, she reads it several minutes—or maybe hours—later. As expected, it is her friend checking up on her. She sends a quick, dismissing reply, and is glad when no more text messages arrive.

**.**

**.**

Beads of cold perspiration slide down her forehead as she her whole body jolts, awaking with a start.

She feels as if the air of the room is sucked out of her lungs as she grips the covers she tossed aside during her sleep tightly in her fists. She bolts upright in bed, catching her breath, her eyes growing large in the darkness.

She momentarily panics, trying to decipher the meaning of all this, trying to tell the difference between what's real and what's not.

Katniss carries herself out of bed, walking towards the closed shutters, her eyes locked on the window as if it is her lifeline. And, in a way, it is. Because when the warm daylight hits her, blinding her to the point of bringing the back of her palm in front of her current hypersensitive eyes, she can shudder at the memory of a _nightmare_ and nothing more.

She heads for the bathroom next to her bedroom, washing the evidence of her obvious trepidation off her face. She grabs the brush, ruining the knots in her hair, before re-braiding it.

For the first time in a in a quite long time, the person starring in her dream was him; Peeta. She is not particularly surprised that he would appear in her sleep. Truth to be told, he had met her, talked to her while she was unconscious multiple times before (even though she has never told him). The point is that she almost every time woke with a smile on her lips, confidence in her heart.

This once, she didn't.

Watching someone you care about deeply—in more ways than you can explain—turn his back on you, hear you but never stop to acknowledge you, and ignore you instead is no reason to grow positive feelings.

As she bends forward, meticulously straightening the sheets, she remembers it. _(All of it.)_ The terror in his wide eyes when he couldn't stop the speeding motorbike. The brakes refusing to work for him. Her screams of despair and, soon, her screams for help. The crimson blood staining the left side of his face, his golden hair, her unsteady, trembling hands.

She wouldn't believe it for a second, if the likelihood of it happening never existed, if everything she saw (but didn't really see) wasn't so damn _real_.

There are some times when he is just as stubborn as she is. It is not safe, but it is not unsafe, either. It is just the right amount of healthy for her to yell at him and for him to yell back. There are, however, some other times when he is _more_ stubborn than her. These moments are really rare, but she knows she will not understand him and he will not listen to her then.

She knows the number of the bakery by heart. So, when she takes her phone in her hands, she doesn't even need to look through her contacts. It rings four times before he picks up, his professional tone melting into one of unrest once he recognizes hers.

"It's nothing," she promises. "I only wanted to—" She swallows. What _is_ she supposed to say? _I wanted to verify you were alive? _Right now, her thoughts seem so stupid, too stupid, to her.

"I can come back," he says. "Or you can come here, if you don't want to be alone." He is met with silence. "Tell me what's wrong," he asks.

"_Nothing_," she repeats truthfully. "Just—be careful."

"What?" He couldn't be more confused. "What do you mean?"

"I'll see you in a few hours," she tells him. She hangs up.

She releases the breath she didn't know she had been holding and moves to her wardrobe, making a mess of her ironed clothes, just to get some fresh, clean ones. Afterwards, she takes her time to dress.

She can't be sure whether walking to the meadow Peeta introduced to her will be good for her.

The only thing she _is_ sure of is that she can't stay here, if she wants to take her mind off things, to learn how to function properly again. She will not become Mrs Undersee, Maysilee's sister. She will not make anyone suffer because of her.

And she will believe every single thought crossing her head, like she will believe every single word sliding from her tongue.

So, why can't she?

**.**

**.**

When she returns, the sky is painted a muted orange color. She enters the house she left behind, softly sighing as she closes the front door. Two seconds after she catches sight of Peeta's shoes placed neatly against one another, she hears a commotion from the living room.

"Katniss?" he calls, getting closer and closer in the process of her looking up. She nods in affirmation, watching his facial features instantly relax. She almost shakes her head at him, then. Somehow, she has to tell him how much older she makes him look.

"I needed to be out of here," she confesses.

It is his turn to bob his head in agreement. "Fresh air helps," he adds in a reassuring manner that makes her (surely) more uncomfortable than he had originally planned to. A wry smile follows his statement.

It's all wrong. The smile is not Peeta's. She is not in the mood to play pretend at this very moment.

"There are no leftovers today. From the bakery," he explains, disappointment filling his voice. "But I could—"

"—no. You are stopping this right now."

He shoots her a baffled look. For once, she gazes directly into his eyes, watching his surprise take over.

"Katniss—"

"You don't _get_ it. Stop it. Stop acting like you are my babysitter. I am not a _toddler_," she snarls, feeling the blood rush to her face, boil in her veins.

Instead of receiving the reply she has been expecting from him (to stop _acting_ like a toddler), she is forced to deal with the hurt she sees she has caused him. She almost breathes in relief when he masks his wounded mood. There is, however, something that holds her back from doing so.

"I'm sorry," he says. He huffs, sarcasm practically dripping off his next words. "I'm sorry that I want to make you feel better." His voice raises an octave.

"Well, stop wanting to make me feel _better_, then. There's nothing you can do to help me and you _do_ know it." She looks at her hands. "For some reason, though, you keep making the same mistakes," she mutters, nearly under her breath. "You need to stop."

"I can't stop wishing for you to be okay, Katniss," he reasons, nodding once she faces him again, emphasizing his point. "That would change everything for me."

"I can't stop wishing for things, either, but it changes nothing for me!" she exclaims, frustration getting the better of her.

He flinches.

"I want things, _too_, Peeta."

He takes a step forward, silently urging her to continue. She does, without having the chance to consider the effect she—or what she tells him for that matter—has on him.

"I want you to never touch that fucking motorbike again, but it means nothing, does it?" she demands. She, embarrassingly enough, lets out a low growl, simultaneously gasping for air. She has never talked to him like this before.

He takes two steps backwards.

"But you sure as hell know what that _fucking motorbike _means to me, _don't you_?" he retorts, imitating her dangerous tone.

Millions of thoughts cross her mind (from apologies to similar words that will only fuel their negatively heated exchange), yet she doesn't find the courage to part her lips. She watches him blink, hears his deep inhalation.

"Alright," he says, lengthening the distance between them. "Since there's nothing more to this," He pauses, eyeing her carefully. ", I'll stop."

If she wasn't a coward, the shock would have probably stilled her every movement. But she is, and she can't risk seeing him again in case he decides to return (despite the fact that she, deep down, wishes he _would_ return to take his words back).

Her hands frantically seek for something in her wardrobe for a second—and probably the last one—time today. Only, now she doesn't put the wrinkled clothes in order, like she promised herself she would. She extracts the dark colored suitcase that has been occupying so much space inside, effortlessly letting it fall to the floor. Its weight falls on the tips of her toes, eliciting a hiss of momentary pain from her.

She bends down, pulling it off her feet, her fingers blocking the small yelp that escapes her mouth. She leans closer, and before she has the time to process what's happening, she falls on all fours, her knees cracking in protest.

Startled by the loss of balance, Katniss shifts so that she is seated on the wooden floor. She runs a hand over her forehead, trying to control each and every one of the unwanted tremors and whimpers.

It's no use. Her head still aches, and the unstoppable sobs still shake her form violently, thoroughly. She draws her legs to her chest, covering the back of her head with both of her hands as if it will break any moment from now.

She should keep going—she _has_ to keep going. She has to start collecting clothes for her suitcase, for her departure, for Prim. But the sensation of the blazing tears rolling down her cheeks in a torturously slow manner is more comforting and welcome than anything else could possibly be.

The continuous, soft knocking on her door does little to break her out of her grief bubble. She does everything in her power to push the sound of Peeta's voice away, and somehow succeeds. In the end, as soon as the entrance to her room is half-open, she has drained every trickle of her strength to require her solitude.

She hears him move in front of her, but barely feels the touch of his hand on her right elbow. She bites on her lip, hoping for the small sounds of her distress to fall off. She wipes her wet eyes with the back of her one palm, even though she already knows there's no point in it.

"Katniss," he calls. There's a crack in his voice as soon as he finishes pronouncing her name. "I didn't mean to upset you more," he whispers, his tone promising, his knuckles brushing her calf.

She opens her mouth to tell him to go, because she _has to_ fill her empty luggage. The incoherent whimper that escapes it instead forces her to press her lips shut once again.

Peeta pulls her to him without a word, his cheek pressed to her hair. The fight against him lasts only for a couple of seconds. He doesn't tell her not to cry, which relieves her more than her teardrops do.

"It's not fair," she blubbers. "All I w-wanted was for Prim and I to have a normal life." She quits talking, knowing that right now nothing will come out stutter free.

"I know," he murmurs, his lips touching her temple. "I know," he echoes, and runs his thumb over her cheekbones, sweeping the dampness off her skin.

It is several minutes of effort to control her breath later that she achieves to speak to him again. She tells him the truth.

"A motorbike is dangerous. You could be dead." She involuntarily cringes due to what she has uttered. "I thought you _were_ dead. It was nothing but a stupid dream—I _know_—"

"A dream?" he parrots confused. He watches her nod. His blond brows furrow in concentration as he attempts to grasp the meaning of what she might be recalling.

Finally, realization seems to dawn on him. "Katniss, you know I'm careful." His tone suggests he is surprised she would even consider it. As a matter of fact, he is surprised she would fear for his safety on the road. "I'm always careful," he adds in hopes of reassuring her.

She shakes her head, as if believing him is infeasible. "Prim has always been careful, too," she reminds him of what he is probably unaware of.

"It's not going to happen, though," he insists. "We live in District Twelve." His hands gently drop from her face, leaving a curious kind of warmth on their wake, and rest on top of his thighs. She keeps her eyes on them, for she can't handle to watch anything else.

"I don't want to worry about more people getting hurt," she admits sheepishly, almost keeping the thoughts to herself. He is rendered speechless as well.

There is a comfortable silence, which stretches between them, until he breaks it.

"Why did you get your suitcase out?" he asks. He pauses, probably expecting her gaze to meet his. He mulls over the possible reasons and different scenarios. He is thinking so loud, she can practically hear him. He moves some more inches away from her, reaching for the object that effectively attracted his attention.

She hears the sound of it being dragged against the floor. She notes how there will be scratches on the wood, if he doesn't go easy on it.

"Katniss?" he calls again.

"I want to be as close to her as possible," she blurts out. _I want to move_, she implies. _I want to stay in town_. "But I don't know where to go." Frankly, there is no one else who would be kind enough to let a complete stranger in his house like he did, especially not in town.

"Then, don't go." His answer is far too fast for her liking. He couldn't be more sure, like he couldn't be more _wrong_ about it.

Nevertheless, if she is honest in the slightest bit, she is not all that eager to leave, either.

All of sudden, she feels too tired to contemplate whether she should stay here or not.

"How about you stay home tonight? We'll talk about this tomorrow," he suggests.

"Okay," she says. She repeats the word once he asks her for reaffirmation. He helps her stand by letting her lean on him for support. "I have to wash my face," she declares.

"Alright," he compromises. He stands on his feet, too, not wasting any more time. "I am going downstairs. Is there anything that you need?" he questions.

"Yeah," she mumbles under her breath, the sound of her voice barely reaching her ears, let alone his. But it truly does, as he waits patiently for her to continue, to enlighten him about what's plaguing her mind.

"Can you sleep here later? With me?" she pleads. She has never asked him anything similar before. Thus, her hesitance is more than just tangible.

He also looks taken aback for a brief moment. However, he quickly manages to collect his tangle of thoughts. "Of course," he says, easing her anxiety for a second. "That is—if that's what you really want to."

He looks unsure of himself. Nervous even.

_Fair enough._

She probably shouldn't ask for things there is a chance he'll be uncomfortable with, _selfish_ _things_, even though her reasoning is truly simple.

"I just don't want to be alone," she professes. That's all she knows for now.

He shakes his head affirmatively once more. "Sure." This time, he might as well believe it.

**.**

**.**

He enters her room approximately twenty minutes after her head hits the pillow.

It is pitch black, and although her eyes have slowly adjusted to the darkness, he seems to have issues with his orientation. Her gaze follows his figure zigzagging several feet in front of the bed, his hands trying to memorize the feeling of random objects under them.

She sighs in defeat, before she—as silently as possible—props her weight on her elbows, sitting up. As careful as she tries to be, though, the unpredicted noises she makes are loud enough for him to hear.

"Katniss?"

She—timidly at first, but more confidently as the minutes tick by—crawls on the mattress. She approaches the lower edge of the bed, extending her hand for him to take.

He grasps her fingers, palms cupping her bare forearms. His earlier frustration vanishes, but he still freezes on the spot, his feet glued to the ground, the unspoken question ready to roll off his tongue.

She foresees what he wonders about, what he fears she might have regretted. She doesn't blame him. Keeping track of her mood swings every single time she's upset has always been a hard achievement according to Madge. (She can't say she's proud of it, but she _can_ say this is what is likely never going to change.)

"Come," she commands, her tone more persistent as well as urgent than encouraging.

She leads him to what she has currently, mentally labeled as his side (considering the other side is where she lays), and lets go of him, her nails digging into the inside of her palm self-consciously.

He moves a little, at least until he's comfortable.

"I would have come sooner, if I had known you were waiting."

"I wasn't. I mean I was, but—I couldn't really fall asleep." She swallows her indecision. "Prim's presence used to calm me at night. Sometimes. So, I thought…"

She thought whatever it is that he unconsciously does to tame her fire could actually have a decent effect on her this night.

"It's okay," he assures her. "I have nightmares, too."

"Oh," she mouths at him, knowing he can make out her facial features by now, because she honestly has no clue of what she ought to tell him.

Dead silence prevails until it doesn't. It is half an hour of tossing and turning later that she wonders whether he is still awake or not (she chooses to doubt the fact). She presses her lips together thoughtfully, deciding to take a chance, hoping he won't be bothered. Her breathing becomes more labored before she can realize the change.

He notices. "Can't sleep yet?"

She turns towards the direction of the voice, facing him fully again. "Sorry. I can't shut my mind off," she offers guiltily as an excuse.

He closes his eyes. "I guess it's not working then." She detects the faint hint of amusement as he speaks, even though the worry is not something she can sidestep, either.

"No," she objects. "It's not you. I—" She inhales as deep as her lungs will allow. "I—I lied. Earlier," she clarifies. "I don't want you to _stop_ being who you are. It _is_ for the best, but—I don't know if I'll be ready to let go. That's all."

He parts his lips to intervene to her monologue. She cuts him off, stealing his breath and words.

"I'll have to. At some point. But when Prim is not with me, I feel like no one will find a reason to stay by my side. Loneliness scares me."

"It shouldn't," he rushes to advice. "You know what you said is not true. You have Madge. You have me."

If she knew, aloneness would never frighten her. "I wish I did. It would make everything so much easier," she points out.

"Sae will probably be with her daughter-in-law tomorrow. Come to the bakery with me. You can help me."

She clutches the pillow closer to her face. "There's nothing I can do there, Peeta. I can't bake. And it sure as hell is not a time for me to start being friendly with people."

"Then, we'll find something you _can_ do. I enjoy being around you. I think we've established that multiple times." They have, indeed. He wouldn't be here, if he couldn't afford wasting his spare time like this. In fact, Katniss suspects everything goes much deeper than that. That is, only because _she_ is feeling this way.

"I don't know," she trails off. "I just _don't_."

He spots her fingers, holding them tightly again. His grip turns out to be more painful than comforting till the moment he loosens it. He is aware the bakery is not a real issue. It is not what troubles her.

"I'll stay with you," he vows. He weaves their fingers, bringing them to where her borders end and his begin on the mattress.

What he said make her grow agitated in a matter of seconds. "Not always."

"Always," he insists.

"_You can't_. Forever is an awfully long time and we don't even know whether Prim will wake up," she hisses. Her throat nearly closes at this.

"_Always_, Katniss. Stop thinking about it. It doesn't matter. We can make it. Even if it takes five, ten, _fifteen_ years." When her response doesn't follow, he completes his unfinished, concise speech. "I'm too involved to back off now."

He clenches and unclenches his fist around hers. She squeezes back a little too late. But it doesn't matter.

A dreamless sleep lures her away after a minute—or maybe two, his words twirling around in her head like infinite, delicate snowflakes dancing in the wind. His voice chases her until dawn.

_Always_.


	6. Six: Always

**Thank you so much for the support and patience. It has definitely encouraged me to keep writing, let alone keep publishing.**

Notes:

_#1 I hope the final chapter of Roommates is not too disappointing. I really enjoyed writing it, so I hope (again) that you'll be satisfied with the ending and enjoy reading the whole thing (even just a little)._

_#2 I believe it is time to say that before I post anything else (and I certainly will, as my insiration never seems to abandon me), I'll finish working on the one-shot I promised to the readers of House Of Chaos. Moreover, you will not have to wait too long after updates, since all published stories will be completed first._

Words: **10,986**

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Suzanne Collins.

Update: 09.03.2013

* * *

**Six: Always**

**September, Week Two**

One would think he would have grown accustomed to all this after being here for what seems like the umpteenth time.

The bleach white uniforms, the annealed walls, the uncomfortable light green seats, the sterilized linoleum on the floor smelling of cleaning solution. The way he moves around makes it evident he has been here in the near past. He knows where to go. He knows how to face the stairs instead of the elevator to get to the second floor, his primary destination.

But he hasn't grown accustomed to coming here alone. Never alone.

A welcoming smile is painted on his lips before he has the chance to realize it. The red-headed nurse smiles back at him, offering an acknowledging nod. She halts right before him and he mentally braces himself for her usual greeting.

"Good morning, Mr Mellark," she says kindly. If only everyone working in this hospital had her mood.

"'Morning, Lavinia." He lifts his one hand a little, shaking it in a half-wave.

She arches up a light eyebrow questioningly. "Here for Miss Everdeen?" she presumes. He nods, confirming the fact. Apparently, nobody else is used to seeing him in a place like this alone, either.

The woman in front of him peers over his shoulder in bewilderment, almost absent-mindedly. She looks at him moments later, eyes narrowing.

"What about Katniss?" she asks, probably hoping she is not touching a particularly sore subject. "Is she alright?" she adds.

Somewhere between his visits with his roommate and their rare conversations at home (there is no lack of communication in general, although she has been far more timid to dig into her younger years since her sister's accident), he discovered the connection between her and Lavinia. They had been schoolmates during high school, and even shared most of their classes together.

"Sure," he dismisses her concern, albeit comprehending it. Katniss has been talking to Prim pretty often. Maintaining her composure was not always among her plans, which was where he usually interfered. (He has improved at breathing comforting words in her ear. In return, she has improved at relying on him.)

"I had to make a personal delivery in town." He shrugs. "I thought I'd stop by."

The corners of her lips turn upwards after this. "You did very well."

He can't help the disappointment that floods him at her words. They mean nothing has changed, and that no significant news for him to transfer to Katniss exists.

His determination hasn't changed, either. He is here to speak with Primrose—as Katniss does nonstop every single time they visit—and he will.

"Have a good day, Peeta," Lavinia says casually, walking away while he repeats the phrase, gaze locking on the hallway (better yet, the room) he's interested in.

Once he has pushed the door closed, letting go of the handle, he—unknowingly—leaves Katniss's spot on the chair that's a couple of feet beside the hospital bed vacant. He just stands there for a moment, unmoving, collecting his thoughts.

Half a minute later, he finds himself walking close to the chair—mostly out of habit. He grips the back of it in his one hand until both his fingers and knuckles protest from the uncomfortable, almost painful, pressure.

He doesn't quite know how to do this.

He breathes a sigh of relief, feeling the nervousness fade away little by little, thankful that the weight is somehow taken off his shoulders.

He _can_ do this. It's Prim. Sweet Prim who did nothing but make him smile and laugh, who has kept the sister he adores sane after all this time, who he knows better than his brothers. Easy to read, like an open book.

He clears his throat.

"I guess this is kind of weird," he says, his voice clear and stable. He chuckles at the absurdity of hearing himself like this, considering he's all alone. It's been different every time Katniss was here with him.

Maybe because you've never spoken a word to the girl, he reminds himself.

His look drifts to the ground. "Today was one of my aunt's good days." He doesn't explain the definition of _'good days',_ as Prim used to be an insider of the mayor's wife situation. "She remembered me," he adds surprised. "Somehow. She asked for my dad's cinnamon rolls." He shrugs. "This is basically why I'm here."

He eventually decides against standing behind the chair, sinking on it once he's moved around it. "I didn't—have the heart to tell her about my father. I said my family was busy. There was no other way to make her understand why I was the only one who visited. Or the one who really made the rolls."

"Madge left us alone after the first couple of minutes. She misses her mother," he whispers the last part. "She misses you, too. A lot. And Katniss and I. And Rory."

He shakes his head. There is a large list of people he could name that care about her.

"Honestly, I don't know if you can hear me," he admits. _The doctors_ don't. He is in no position to tell. "I don't know if you hear Katniss talking to you. You _need_ to wake up."

His lips curve upwards, sorrowfully. "I will not lie. She is getting much better." He pauses, forming different phrases in his head, trying to pick the best one. He miserably fails, his restlessness all but gone. "But she isn't the same without you. I can do nothing when she craves to hear your advice. And I won't pretend to understand what missing a sibling feels like, because I don't. I probably never will."

He runs a hand through his hair. "She's right, you know. This isn't fair to any of you. It is never going to be."

He risks taking a look at her pale face. The delicate blonde waves form a crown around her head. The bright halo makes it simple enough for someone to confuse her for an angel.

The evidence of the shame his next planned words fill him creeps up to his face, coloring his cheeks ever so slightly. But he has to tell someone. He has to tell _her_. He feels like he _owes_ it to her.

"And—although I try not to be selfish, I can't help all those egoistic _thoughts_. Because when you come back to her and she manages to regain her normal, I want her to remember the things she felt for as long as she couldn't have it." He forces his eyelids shut, before quickly reopening them, his gaze focusing on Prim's form.

"If she doesn't, I'm afraid I won't know what to do with myself."

Self pity is what he's been most sick of as the years after his crucial loss (his father) passed. Falling into a vicious circle is easy—maybe too easy—to achieve. Avoiding it, however, probably requires more strength that he knows he can muster.

"I really wish you could talk to me," he confesses. "Speaking of this to Katniss—it will only make her feel worse." He's aware that keeping things from her doesn't make him insincere. Though, it doesn't make him honest, either.

Words start flowing of his mouth. Words covering the varying gaps of months, the details Katniss has purposefully missed mentioning. Words he had unknowingly kept inside for too long, feelings he has been suppressing for the sisters' sake. (He adores Katniss. That much is pretty obvious to everyone but her. But then again, even if she did know, he wouldn't get the chance to properly express it.)

By the time he is ready to go, the weight he didn't know if ever existed is nearly lifted off his shoulders. He grips her fingers after a minute of inner debating, speaking valedictory words as he exhales loudly.

He turns around one more time as he reaches the door, a guilty expression plastered on his face.

Who was this visit for really? Her or himself?

**.**

**.**

The routine he and Katniss have fallen into lately is something he has grown to dislike. The more he thinks about how things were when they barely dared to articulate a few words to one another, the more anxious he feels.

Anxious that things might never go back to the way they were before he opened his heart to her. Anxious that she might never stop throwing her arms around his neck every time he walks through the door, holding onto him as if he is her silver lining, scared that—somehow—that could be the last time she sees him. Anxious that, sometimes, her depression might emanate from her frequent visits to the nearly vacant hospital room.

The two of them could be creative, if they wanted to, if they tried. They have read her favorite books together. They have attempted to follow his father's recipe notebook step by step, eyes narrowing at every single word that needed particular attention. They have painted on his middle brother's old, forgotten canvas together, smearing the leftover colors over their clothes, his hair, or the parts of her nose and cheeks he likes pressing his lips to when he considers it okay to do so.

This is when he forgets all about his selfishness and wishing to keep her with him for as long as he can. This is when he prefers seeing her go to watching her mourn over the sister who isn't dead, but whose brain is utterly lifeless.

Today is different. When she wordlessly, as usual, wraps her slender arms around his middle, instead of timidly reciprocating the gesture, he embraces her form without a second thought, resting his chin on the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

Once she purposefully deprives him of the intoxicating heat her body emits, he can't help wondering what might have given him away.

He notices a change to the way she all too often confronts him. She narrows her grey eyes at him in newfound suspicion. A flicker of mixed emotions contorts her facial features. Eventually, her expression softens, as if recognition dawns on her.

"Bad day?" she questions with an almost non-existent frown of thoughtfulness. The gesture of her thumb leaving lazy, blazing trails on his jaw seems surreal to him. So surreal that he waits for the reddening of her cheeks, the evidence he needs to feel the smile creep up the corner of his lips.

He nods, watching her hand fall back to her side. "You could say that," he tells her. "My aunt. She wanted—" He sighs.

"I know," she rushes to reply, sparing him from having to rephrase the thoughts in his brain. "Madge called. I figured she'd have to tell me something important, so…" she trails off, implying the rest. "She was crying," she murmurs sadly.

He nods again. Replaying the image of his emotionally wrecked cousinin his head will get him nowhere at the moment. (He already knows it is going be a part of what will steal his sleep when he lies in bed tonight.)

"Can I do something?" _Can I do something for _you_? _"Anything," she promises, a grimace of determination plastered on her face.

"I'm good," he says, indirectly declining. He leans forward, placing a kiss on her cheek. "I'll be back in some minutes."

He walks away, heading for what will lead him to the upper floor. Katniss doesn't stop him. He doesn't look back. He does, however, return.

* * *

**September, Week Four**

They lie in his—now their—meadow, her head resting on his lap, the upper half of his back supported by the tree truck behind him.

He's playing with her hair, pretending to practice at the (usually nervous) habit he has picked up; making knots. Katniss has found herself watching him tie the laces he has ripped off his shoes more times than she can possibly count. The way nearly invisible wrinkles appear on his forehead as he concentrates on his task at hand, the way his lips press tightly together, the way he sometimes bites the inside of his cheek has her narrowing her eyes at him for reasons she can't quite name.

The soft tugging she has been feeling on her scalp suddenly stops, her senses slowly awakening as his hands still, buried in the hair that is free of the practical braid.

She becomes all too aware of the white dandelion she has been keeping in-between her fingers. Bringing it closer to her face, she examines it for a couple of moments. Finally, she mercilessly crushes it in her palm. There is something oddly relieving about seeing the small flower—weed, really—languish before her very eyes.

"You could have made a wish," Peeta offers. If she wasn't feeling so darn lazy, she would have turned her head to the right angle, facing him.

But she doesn't. Instead, she only opts for moving her shoulders, knowing he'll be completely capable of feeling her shrug.

"Would it have made a difference?" she challenges. He seems to consider her question for a minute, before he matches her nonchalant shrug.

"I guess not," he mumbles.

She shifts a little, moving upwards, closer to his face until the right side of her face is firmly placed on his chest. He relaxes after realizing she isn't abandoning their peace any time soon.

He takes her hand, idly drawing a bizarre pattern on her complexion. After this repetitive action of his, after his mouth briefly connects with the back of her palm, she recognizes the gesture; the thoroughly-shaped heart.

It is the way her father used to say goodnight to his girls. It means "thank you". It means "I love you".

She doesn't panic like she first did when she felt his index finger follow the unseeable traces on her skin. She remains silent, accepting the idea of being wanted, fully embracing it like she has learned to.

Her eyes flutter closed, her curious urge to memorize the sound of his heartbeat under her ear overcoming her.

"I wish—I wish I could freeze this moment right here, right now, and live in it forever," he whispers, knowing she'll hear him.

She remains unmoving, unresponsive for a pretty long time. She murmurs an incoherent phrase he can't quite catch. In the end, she agrees with the declaration he has chosen to make.

"Okay," she says to him. She'll allow it.

* * *

**October, Week Two**

Peeta has never run like this before in his entire life. Not when he was first taught to. Not when his father's eldest sister gave birth to the little cousin he had been anticipating to see. Not when he almost missed the school bus the year they had moved to town. Not when his brothers had stolen his drawings—the outcome of his doodling—laughing with and at him, threatening to _show mother_, to scare him.

Even if he did have no problem using an elevator, his patience is wearing impossibly thin, too thin for him to find the courage to wait. He almost stumbles on the fourth stair, refusing to pay any kind of attention on the patients (or the people who are accompanying the patients—this is a more familiar title) who must be shooting him curious looks, if not more.

He needs to find her.

He knows where to go, knows where to keep running to. But he still needs to see her, have sufficient proof that the message he received was not a lie. That it's the pure truth.

Katniss doesn't realize the effect this entire situation—let alone her suffering—has on him, he muses. She never has and probably never will.

His hope that Primrose has indeed opened her eyes for the first time after months of being in a comatose state starts diminishing as he spots the brown-haired girl pacing furiously in the hallway. His anticipation, however, only grows.

Unable to wait any longer, he calls her name, the sound of it a sanguine melody passing through his dry lips. He watches her turn her head to his direction, her pupils dilating in a matter of seconds, before the relief starts taking over.

He feels his heart hammer unsteadily, loudly inside his chest as soon as she forms his name and confidently begins to close the distance between them. He would have done literally _anything_ to discern that invincible intensity in her gaze, her fire that might never cease causing the all too familiar inner turmoil in his head, consuming and burning up his insides.

She begins to walk, then stride, then jog, then _run_ towards him, matching his frenzied tempo. As much as he tries to prepare himself for the force of their bodies' collision, it still sends him a couple of feet backwards. He nearly stumbles.

He exhales against her hair, his open palm firmly supporting her back. She momentarily tightens her hold around him, before letting go, facing him, grinning at him. The urge to reach out and touch that smile of hers (the smile he hasn't seen in a very long time) bubbles up out of the blue, but doesn't surprise him at all.

"You came," she pants, gripping his biceps in order to balance herself.

He nods several times. "As soon as I got your message," he promises. "Things were pretty crazy this morning at the bakery; this is why I didn't—" He pauses at the shake of her head. "I would have—" She presses a finger on his lips, effectively silencing him.

"It's okay. You're here now."

He wraps a hand around her wrist, holding her extended arm against him. "How's Prim?" he finally asks the question he intended on asking from the moment he stepped foot on the hospital.

"Resting," she replies. "Lavinia said she needed sleep," she explains. "She didn't speak to me. But she recognized me, Peeta. She's going to be okay. If we give her time, if we follow the doctors' instructions carefully, she's going to heal. For _real_."

Unable to form the words dancing in his head, he pulls her to him once more, coaxing the sound he has missed so much—a genuine laugh—out of her. He, unexpectedly, spots Madge watching the exchange between the two of them, suppressing a smile. She offers an acknowledging shake of her head.

_Thank you_, he mouths at her.

There is no use in elaborating further. She understands he is thanking her for staying by Katniss's side for as long as he physically couldn't. For arriving hours before him, for keeping the brunette company when she needed it the most.

"There's something more," he hears Katniss murmur sheepishly. He visibly tenses, distancing himself from her, gazing at her confused.

"Is something wrong?"

She reads his body language, hastily fixing up her bad choice of words. "No. It's not about Prim," she lets him know. "It's about things I've wanted to tell you for a while. Things I've been thinking about _a lot_ when I probably shouldn't have—and things that sometimes made no sense to me," she blabbers.

This time, he takes another step towards the other direction, without her following him. He quickly masks the frown in his face. Her talkative mood scares him a little (to the point of believing her sister's waking up might be affecting her too much, forcing phrases out of her mouth that she might not quite mean in the near future.)

"We'll talk about it later," he says, his voice soft. He can't be sure whether stopping her is a wise option, even though he can't help hoping to do whatever is right by her.

She makes a grimace which pains him, although he attempts not to show it. She looks disappointed, apparently not expecting him to deny.

"It can wait," he assures her.

"No." She gets in his way, hopefully preventing him from moving towards his cousin. "Peeta," she whines stubbornly.

He rolls his eyes. "Katniss." He mimics her tone, his persistent warning not going unnoticed by her. "We _will_ get to it eventually. Just not right now. Prim—"

Frustrated, she takes the elastic ribbons of the jacket covering half of his form in her fists, roughly drawing him to her. He gasps, startled by her indignant action.

Before he has the chance to react, to decide whether she is trying to measure his reaction to her or not, she drapes an arm around him, her hand grasping the blond locks on the back of his head, pushing him forward. Her mouth captures his in a frantic, urgent kiss, and before his mind and lips have a chance to just _comply_, she ends it.

He feels as if he might actually explode. He tries to speak, but falters.

"It _can't_ wait," she insists. "I've been wanting to—I need to know if that's wrong. If you haven't changed your mind about…" She blushes furiously, her fingers brushing the side of his neck as she withdraws her hand. "About this," she finally tells him.

She sighs. "I'm not very good with words."

"I figured as much," he teases. She looks down in embarrassment. "Hey," he calls, attracting her attention, meeting her eyes. Katniss openly showing affection in public—he remembers the _hospital_ and his _cousin_—warms his heart in a manner he can't shake, even if he wanted to.

"If you don't consider _now_ a bad time to talk about this, then…you should know I have not changed—and _will not_ change—my mind about you. That's impossible."

She opens her mouth and closes it again. She nods, relief washing over her face.

"Are we good?" he inquires hopefully.

"Yes. We are." She bites her bottom lip, fidgeting. "I'm sorry I sprang on you," she apologizes, the corners of her mouth curving upwards on their own accord, his constantly widening smile contagious.

"You sure did." He chuckles at her false expression of guilt. He gestures to where Madge is sitting, signaling they should probably move. "Come on," he encourages.

It takes Katniss a moment or two to keep up with his intentions, but when she finally does, she quietly hops beside him, holding onto his free hand. He clears his throat, tilting his head to the side to face her fully, the soberness returning in his voice.

"Tell me what I've missed," he requests, a question hidden behind his words.

He soon enough receives an affirmative confirmation from her. "We'll fill you in."

And they do. But not before Madge's knowing—almost invisible—smirk dies on her lips.

* * *

**October, End of Week Four**

Although Primrose has been insisting she can indeed make it upstairs on her own, Katniss's thoughtful scowl refuses to vanish as she marches right behind her sister. She reluctantly offers little to zero support. That is, until there are no stairs to step on, and the blonde girl has turned around to mirror Katniss's facial expression.

Even her patience has started running low. She _does_ recognize her fateful mistake (and that she should have probably listened to her sister for once) and she _does_ know it will take longer than the time that she wishes to heal completely, yet she can't help getting frustrated every once and then.

Her memory is poor, her durability limited. She tires her body and brain out without realizing it, and then feels hopeless when she actually does.

Receiving help was never a big deal. But, somehow, she looks beyond frustrated as she tries her best to locate Katniss's bedroom—or better yet recall its whereabouts—in the second floor of the house right now.

Her angry gaze softens as soon as she catches sight of the small smile on Katniss's full lips. The dark-haired girl steps a couple of feet before her, effortlessly—almost blindly—making her way to the previously named _guest room_.

"Well," she begins to speak, making a gesture to show Prim the room around her one more time. "Welcome, I guess."

Prim nods twice in _thanks_, not finding any words in her. Katniss supposes she isn't in the mood, so she decides she will take whatever it is she can get for now.

"Would you prefer having the room to yourself?" she asks, her grey eyes widening in concern. She would grant Prim her bedroom in a heartbeat, if that meant keeping her safe, with her, for as long as possible.

Prim mulls what she has heard over her head for a while, before she shakes her head; hesitantly at first. "Where would you sleep?"

"The living room," Katniss answers. "Or we could carry the couch," she motions to where the furniture lies "to the room Peeta has kept empty." She shrugs, silently assuring her sister there really is no problem.

Prim only shakes her head again. She drags her feet to the bed, sitting on the soft mattress with an audible sigh. She bends down, slowly managing to pull the shoes off her feet. Katniss hurriedly searches for a comfortable nightgown (that will preferably not remind her of the hospital she has been kept in for long enough) in their things, handing it to her.

"Do you need help with it?" she volunteers. She sits beside Prim, starting to offer her assistance without waiting for a negative reply, because honestly the possibility of her sister snapping at her never crossed her mind.

"I can," Prim insists.

"Sure," Katniss agrees, creating a distance between them, unsure of what her future actions should revolve around. Prim shoots her an apologetic glance—maybe for her rightfully grumpy attitude, or maybe not—but utters no more words.

"We need to move closer in town. If there's an emergency or anything—" She pauses, carefully gauging Prim's reaction. "We need to be near the hospital," she adds. "For your therapy. We can make it—"

"—Katniss," she is sternly interrupted. "My head hurts," Prim confesses, self-consciously rubbing one of her temples with her index and middle finger. She closes her eyes.

"It's alright," she responds almost immediately. "We can talk about this tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow. Whenever you feel ready," she blurts out, suddenly regretting speaking so much, after quite a long time.

"Get some rest," she prompts.

She sees it again; the look full of gratification in Prim's eyes, meaning more than thousands of phrases put together. She accepts it, nodding in comprehension, smiling in contentment.

She recognizes the warm, comfortable sweetness she feels inside her chest. Hope; that's what it is. Life might get better—_good_ even—again, after all.

* * *

**November, Week One**

It is 5:20 in the morning.

She wouldn't have said a word out loud, if it weren't for Prim's baby blues practically begging her to break the comfortable silence between them. After returning to her room, Katniss found her standing a couple of inches away from the window, her form barely illuminated by the lamp on the nightstand.

Prim absent-mindedly observes the made bed, before her gaze flickers to Katniss once more.

"I'm telling Sae I'll quit my job," she announces. Prim subconsciously releases a startled sound. Being surprised to hear the news can be an understandment. Even though these had been Katniss's intentions all along, she chose to avoid sharing them with Prim only days after she returned home.

"When?"

"Today." She hears the gasp passing through her sister's lips. She shakes her head, correcting herself. "I'm just telling her today. I won't officially quit, unless I've found a new job in town."

Prim huffs. "Unless _we_ have found a place to work, you mean."

"Wha—no," Katniss whispers baffled. "No, it won't be necessary, if I am careful with my choices. You don't have to feel indebted because you're not going to school."

She earns herself a lingering glare. "Stop," Prim demands. "Things will never be like they used to be," she reminds her ruefully.

"They can. You _can_ go back to college. You are just taking a break from it all."

"I'm not saying this just for me, Katniss," she points out. "I'm not going to burden you with college fees again. It won't be fair."

Katniss's nose wrinkles thoughtfully. She honestly tries to understand that her sister wants them to be equals—like they once were—in all ways possible. Yet, there's a part of her desiring to object to Prim's reasoning, to express her disagreement. She longs for the word _but_ to be heard.

"But you had agreed this is how it would be until you completed your education."

"Yes," Primrose confirms. "After Mom and Dad's accident. After much persuasion on your part. And _before_ I fell into a coma. Everything is a lot different now, though. You can't keep sacrificing yourself for my sake forever," she reasons.

"I'm not—"

"Don't say you're _not_. That's a lie."

"I wouldn't lie to you," Katniss rushes to retort. "I'm not leaving anything behind. Really. We sold our house in Twelve years ago. There's nothing—"

"Please, let me finish," Prim requests. "You know how I feel about owing." Katniss nods, being quite familiar with what Prim is referring to. She does feel the same way, after all. "You're my _sister_. If we keep this up, I'll only start wishing to repay you for the favors you're doing for me. I don't _want_ to call them favors. I want everything to come naturally."

"It is. No one is forcing me to help you," Katniss explains, a slight frown painted on her face. She had taken Prim returning to college for granted.

"I _know_. But it won't change much for me. I think it's about time I start being financially independent. Not by babysitting or doing part-time jobs. By actually working. I need to stop taking things from you."

"Things?" Katniss's upset tone betrays the extent of her frustration. "What kind of _things_?"

"Whatever matters. More free time. A workplace where you are truly respected. Peeta. What about Peeta?"

She sighs, even more perplexed. "What about him?"

"Have you considered what his reaction will be when he realizes you plan on moving to town? For _my_ therapy."

Dead silence prevails for a brief moment. "He'll be alright with it." Prim arches an eyebrow in disbelief. "No, really. He already knows I hadn't moved in this house permanently. He'll be expecting it. He'll be okay."

She flinches, understanding that she has started to repeat herself. It sounds as if she is trying to convince herself, rather than Prim.

"I—I'll be late for work," she blurts out awkwardly. She fears whatever has sister has mentioned to her is going to chase her for the rest of the day at Sae's farm, if not for the rest of the night, too.

"You need to go." Her words jibe with Katniss's internal monologue.

"We can talk about this again. Don't be stubborn," the brunette advices. "You could always change your mind."

"Uh-huh, I _could_. I'm not going to," her sister insists.

Katniss rolls her eyes in the process of heading for her bedroom door. She puts one hand on the handle, gripping it, pushing it down. She offers a small wave to Prim's direction, who seems to be busy with searching for clean clothes to dress for the day.

With a long sigh, she hastily descends the stairs. She lets her roommate's willing smile warm her heart, even for a little while. In reality, she aches to hear that what she has assumed is true, that finding no time for him for a couple of months won't hurt him as much as it will bother her. (She, however, sure as hell knows he will be anything but indifferent as soon as he hears of her plans.)

Maybe she shouldn't have spoken on his behalf. Maybe leaving District Twelve will be the final straw for his patience to be utterly dissolved.

A thousand lifetimes could pass. Maybe she still wouldn't deserve him.

* * *

**November, Week Two**

She shouldn't tell him.

This is the thought buzzing nonstop in her head as she watches him turn the page of his recipe book, sitting on the other side of kitchen table. His gaze lingers on some words more than it does on others, thoroughly scanning the lines, narrowing at them.

Katniss shifts nervously on her seat, transfixed by his hand, which is slowly creeping towards the black pencil lying on the wooden surface. He grips the object in his palm, skillfully twirling it in between his fingers, before finally deciding to put it in use. He underlines a couple of phrases—or even sentences—adding some notes of his own when he considers it essential.

Her teeth unconsciously sink in the tip of her bottom lip.

She _should_ tell him.

She replays the image of the way she greeted him at the hospital over and over again, when she first learned her sister would be capable of recovering with the family's help. Her cheeks redden a little at the memory, even though she is more than positive she regrets nothing.

However, she can't help wondering whether what she did, showing him what she really would have wanted from him, was wrong. Because he hasn't initiated a conversation to her about it. And because she has no clue of what he might have been thinking of her afterwards.

The scratching of the pencil against the paper stops. Confused by the nature of her strange silence, he places whatever held his attention only seconds ago down, and looks at her without a single warning.

Her breath hitches in her throat at having been caught. (But really, how could he neglect the fact that she has been staring at him without moving a muscle all along?)

"What's wrong?" he asks cautiously.

She tries to smile reassuringly, but in the end only manages to grimace, exacerbating the situation she has gotten herself into. Though, knowing she was the one who sat opposite from him while he was working on the first place, she doesn't complain.

She shrugs. He reflects her frown. "What's bothering you?" he encourages.

She swallows. "I…I just don't know how to say it," she confesses, embarrassed.

He leans forward, supporting a part of his weight on his one elbow, as if he is waiting to hear a secret. He most possibly intended for the sight before her to be laughable. A small, nearly inaudible, chuckle escapes her mouth.

"Well," he says. "I have all the time in the world to listen to you."

Big words for someone who is not worthy of them, as usual. Though, instead of feeling guilty hearing them, Katniss derives all the comfort she will need.

"Um. You have to finish with your work first," she reminds him.

"Or I can continue working when I'm actually at _work_," he suggests. "If that's what's holding you back, don't even think about it. There's no rush in what I'm doing. Nothing that I really _have to_ finish," he explains.

She nods, suddenly feeling daring. "Can we go for a walk, then? I mean, it's not that cold out. I kind of need a break from being here."

Creases appear on his forehead. Since she isn't going to the farm today and Madge offered to drive both her and Prim to town, there is no excuse for why she stayed here. They are probably thinking along the same lines.

What he doesn't know is that Prim practically forced her not to leave with them. She knows her fears, the reasons of her hesitance, the recent neediness she has developed to keep sharing things with Peeta.

Prim said she should have faced him sooner than later. Whether she is right or wrong, there truly is no going back now.

He quietly hums in agreement. "That's a good idea. Let me fetch my jacket first."

She waits until she doesn't hear his footsteps anymore and follows the direction he did, copying his actions.

They take a different path today, Katniss notices. The meadow has started getting out of reach, but the village square isn't close, either.

"I'm ready whenever you are," he says, breaking through Katniss's tension, lightly squeezing the hand he's holding. He shoots her a lopsided smile, giving her stomach a funny feeling. She might never get used to those—they have a way of catching her off guard each and every time.

"Okay," she replies. "It's—about Prim's therapy." She shakes her head. "And _me_," she emphasizes. "Although I've been driven to face this much sooner than I originally thought, I don't want to put the blame on her. I'm not going to make this about her, because it really isn't."

He bobs his head in comprehension, urging her to go on.

"We're moving in town. We'll stay at Madge's for a week or two, but we'll eventually rent our own apartment." She feels the intensity of his stare on her as she keeps walking, looking ahead of her.

"I know," she murmurs. "This isn't one of the greatest decisions I have ever made, but there's not much Prim and I can do back here." She releases a breathy, humorless chuckle that barely reaches his ears. "I finally feel like I can understand my parents' logic. They had wanted us to have a better life. They hadn't imagined we could have achieved anything close to it here."

"That does make sense," he says. "For a family of four, I mean."

"Yeah, well," she answers. "We're not so many. But I guess we'll work it out."

She remains silent after that, confused by his reaction. Or maybe confused by his lack of reaction. There is no anger in his voice to infuriate her. But then again, there is no hollowness in it to intimidate her, either.

"So what you had to say to me…" He trails off, waiting for her to fill in the apparent gaps in his head.

"That was most of it," she declares in a tone that makes it seems as if it should have been pretty obvious to him. "I just thought you needed to know. Truth to be told, I was expecting you to be more—" She grunts, unable to finish that sentence.

"But I already knew," he replies. He looks away from her for a moment, trying to translate the unspoken words. Then, he observes her closely, until realization hits him.

"You thought I'd be mad?" he asks surprised. The small sound Katniss's throat unwillingly elicits gives him all the answers he possibly needs. "Why?" he inquires.

"Not mad. You once told me you'd be disappointed," she corrects.

"Yes," he confirms, clearly capable of recalling the conversation. _Does he believe this doesn't mean a great deal to her? _"I said that once."

She finally recognizes their surroundings. Her gaze travels over the tall green trees, while her memory travels years before this moment—all those picnics and treks and songs that made the birds' chirping stop all at once come rushing back to her. (Her father rarely took Primrose, who was too frightened by everything, out in the woods with him, but Katniss hadn't missed a single chance to follow his feather-like footfalls whenever he asked her to.)

"I can't disappoint _you_ of all people, Peeta," she states. She keeps her eyes trained on her shoes. He stops moving altogether, and she has no choice but to do the same. (But she's still too much of a coward to hold his gaze when he craves for it.)

"You haven't," he tells her honestly. She buries her hands deep in the pockets of her coat as a violent shudder shakes her form. "Katniss, you _haven't_." His urgency is what prompts her to properly face him in the end.

"This is different. You aren't writing me off for no reason. I think it's safe to say I can understand."

"I'm not writing you off at _all_." He nods, perfectly aware of it. "You just won't tell me what you want," she adds. "It's not fair for you."

"No." He shakes his head. "What's not fair is you and your sister going through more than what you've already had. I get it Katniss. It's okay."

What breaks her, really? The fact that he means every single word coming out of his mouth? Or the fact that there is no self pity in his tone when he tries to convince her he understands? Maybe both, she decides.

He begins to retreat, signaling the end of their brief exchange. But she will have none of it. As soon as he realizes she is not there, walking right beside him, he halts, turning around to give her a questioning glance.

"What do you want?" she demands. There is absolutely no room for his selflessness now.

His shoulders slump at her words, and he gestures for her to approach him one more time. She stays rooted to the ground, stubbornly returning his stare until he has no other choice but to sigh in what can only be characterized as defeat.

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me what you want. _Do_ what you want. Stop thinking about what I'd say for a moment." He opens his mouth to protest. Yet, she's quick enough to cut him off midsentence. "Don't tell me you can't. Everyone _can_ be selfish, if they want to. Stop being so exasperating, just—"

She steps back in surprise, the words dying in her throat, when he strides forward, standing before her in only a matter of seconds, his blue orbs blazing with _something_ Katniss cannot seem to name.

He whispers—maybe mouths—a couple of phrases at her, phrases she doesn't catch. Her eyes move upwards to capture his—he's not even that tall, yet she feels as if he's practically towering over her—but widen by the time they find no correspondence.

His attention is elsewhere. An unforeseen thrill of excitement rushes through her, making her toes curl.

He narrows his eyes at her lips, clearly debating with himself whether to listen to her or not. Wondering whether whatever he has in mind is right or wrong by her. It is always her—never _him_.

Growing rather impatient with him, she tilts her chin upwards in manner that is evident enough for him to get the hint she is offering. He barely moves as he gives in, managing to steal a peck from her inviting mouth.

He pulls back, looking at her with determination, instead of the hesitance she has been expecting. Had he asked her, she would have still granted him permission.

"I want to kiss you," he proclaims, just loud enough for her to hear. She doesn't nod, doesn't even have the time to blink at him.

He cups her cheek. He angles his head differently, correctly, tasting her lips again and again and again. He kisses her thoroughly, fully, not daring to leave a single inch of her mouth unexplored. He devours her until she's senseless, breathless.

And she refuses to let the newfound hunger, the conspicuous feeling of starvation, consume her. She refuses to allow her knees to buckle in front of him. She just _refuses_ to remain passive, because she _is_ that selfish.

So she kisses him back with all that she's got. She helps him memorize the way the heat radiating off her body feels pressed against his. Or that she awkwardly wonders where the heck to hold onto so that there will be no chance of her losing her balance. Or that she doesn't stop seeking for the curious satisfaction she has been anticipating till the moment he urges her to slow down and keep up with his moves.

His careful, seething, delicate moves that—frustratingly enough—leave her desiring more without being capable of truly clearing up what 'more' is in her mind. But, for once, she is sure this has nothing to do with her _mind_.

When he reluctantly pulls away, all he does is watch her; the vivid red of her lips as she tastes it one last time, the unmistakable blaze as _she_ watches _him_, the almost violent rise and fall of her chest as she breathes in and out.

"Do you want to go back?" he asks her then, the sound of his voice strangely raucous. She does her best to ignore whatever this achieves to stir inside her.

She shakes her head no. He nods, while his hope turns into contentment.

They find their way into the dark, mesmerizing woods upon Katniss's request. To her complete and utter surprise he withdraws a small, practical pocketknife out of his jacket. Realization dawns on her once he reaches his goal, carving a single word on the tree.

(She remembers his willow.)

She steps closer, pryingly eyeing the wood once he seems to be done.

_Peeta_, it says.

A wry smile decorates his face as he steps back and hands the knife over to her. Her fingers close tightly around the base of it moments before she actually understands he wants her to carve her name next to his.

She thoughtfully runs her thump over the sharp blade. It takes her a while to come up with an idea and much, much longer to imprint it on the tree. (Her handwriting has been messy since she can remember.)But in the end, she knows she means it. Whatever she's been trying to tell him, that word seems to adequately cover it all.

_Always_, she writes.

* * *

**December, Week Two**

She's cold. Although this year's winter seems to be a lot milder than the previous one, she has as usual neglected to dress warmly.

And why should she? She'll live—_lives_, but still isn't any close to familiar to the change—two blocks down from Madge's house. She and Prim moved most of their furniture from the rather spacious basement of the Undersees (who promised to keep the all of their old things until Katniss came back—and she has now) to their new apartment a few hours ago.

Her blonde-haired girl friend opens the door only seconds after she hears the soft knock on it. She grins widely, and Katniss is greeted with a series of unexpected memories. The facts begin to kick in one by one as she accepts them, sighing loudly. She concludes that she had been standing on this threshold precisely one year ago.

"Well," she says. "Do you plan on letting me in?"

Instead of apologizing, Madge shakes her head mischievously. "Not a chance," she answers. "Unless, of course, you would like to have a hot chocolate."

"No, thanks," Katniss declines. "I've still got plenty of unpacking to do." And therefore a lack of spare time, she adds in her head what she is sure Madge is already aware of. She eventually offers her elbow, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"Shall we?" It is what she came here for, after all. To lead the way (although she suspects Madge would have found it even without her help, one way or another).

Madge rushes inside to put on an overcoat that will prevent her from freezing and a pair of shoes. She closes the massive door behind her and soon anchors herself on Katniss's arm. They walk arm in arm towards their destination, barely exchanging a word with one another, like old times.

Unconsciously, Katniss smiles at the thought. Starting to bond with Madge again is one of the perks of her coming back home. _Home_. The word seems foreign to her now and will probably feel like it for a great amount of time. Peeta had become her normal, after all. He hasn't stopped being her normal, even though they have been out of touch with each other for almost three weeks.

The Undersees have been overly generous with the Everdeen girls thus far. They saved a room to host them since the last week of November and had absolutely no objection with allowing them to stay for as long as they needed to. The mayor's kindness originates from more than just a good heart, as Katniss has noticed. His openhandedness pleases his daughter.

Katniss will not say no to what he has to offer as long as it keeps her and her sister fed and clothed. She might have achieved to gain a new job for herself (as a diner waitress), but she appreciates the fact that there was no use for Prim to go through a similar procedure. Mr Undersee has assured them that putting a couple of good words for Primrose hadn't been that hard.

Having personal connections with a plethora of people who work on the market might have a couple of benefits, Katniss has decided.

Before she knows it, she has reached the third floor of the old building she has stepped foot on several times by now, Madge following closely behind her, panting.

"Slow down, will you?"

She smirks in response, despite the fact that she can distinctively hear the rapid beating of her heart as well. Her unsteady breathing doesn't go unnoticed by Madge, who rolls her eyes at her friend's childish behavior.

Katniss laughs, easing some the tension of the last couple of days off her tired shoulders. She is positive that if her exhaustion was nothing but physical, most things would be much easier to deal with.

"Are you seriously in the mood to unpack _today_? I would have waited until at least tomorrow morning." Katniss shoots her an incredulous look of doubt. "I'd only get my nightgown and toothbrush out," she adds defensively, earning a dramatic, mock scoff.

"You know how much I despise disorder in my room. My house now," she corrects herself. She buries her hand in the right pocket of her jeans, searching for what will open the door before her. "_Besides_, there is no better way to get your mind off whatever's bugging you."

She smiles triumphantly as her palm locks around the desired object. She faces her keys, hastily swallowing the aching longing as soon as she notices Peeta's spare key on the ring. (She had taken it off her locket once she simply felt safe enough to stop wearing the heirloom around her neck.)

"And what's bugging you, Miss?"

"Nothing." The frivolous answer comes too soon for Madge to give up. She only lets it go when Katniss stubbornly repeats the phrase, finally finding the key she needs. Instead of putting it in use, though, she has no choice but to place it back in her pocket.

Prim's surprisingly frustrated expression greets them both at the door.

"I can't find Mom's teacups," she protests. "Hey, Madge."

'Hi,' she mouths at her, waving.

Katniss's brow furrows. "What teacups?" she wonders out loud, confused.

"You know," Prim whines. "Her favorite ones. I've opened every box saying 'fragile', but still haven't found them. Why can't I remember _where_ we put them?" If she starts panicking now, Katniss will panic more. She sure as hell hasn't learnt what buttons to press when it comes to her sister's condition, although she is aware Cinna—Prim's therapist—has labeled all these post-traumatic episodes, which keep stressing her.

Katniss shrugs nonchalantly, while in reality trembles with anxiety on the inside.

"I can't recall, either. Do you mean her blue ones?" Prim nods. "We'll open most of the boxes tonight, if not all of them. We'll find them."

"And I'll help," Madge interferes, in hopes of helping. "I have nothing better to do."

The declaration coaxes a small smile out of the blonde Everdeen. "Neither do I," she admits in defeat. She steps aside then, allowing the girls entrance. She gestures for them to move further inside, while she walks towards the place that is supposed to be their only bedroom.

Madge's eyes roam over the small place around her, examining the ugly-painted walls as well as the mess of personal belongings Katniss and Prim have created after moving in. Her attention returns to Katniss, who is apparently waiting for a reaction. Madge shrugs.

"I guess it's a little different from Peeta's house," she says.

Katniss raises an eyebrow at her words. _A little_? Her expression soon transforms into a neutral, nonchalant one. (Because that truly is not her real problem.) "It's different from Peeta's house, yes," she agrees. "But not at all different from what I've been used to since fourteen. It's not such a big deal."

They quickly become busy taking care of the mental list that has been written down on Katniss's brain so clearly. It has been her personal mantra all day long, what rescued her from feeling the need to let her thoughts drift elsewhere.

Working in silence is what Katniss usually indulges, no matter who the person contributing to her project is. Speaking whilst attempting to make accomplishments was not something she's been in favor of, as distractions all too often affect negatively—reduce even—her efficiency. And it's not personal; it's just a fact most people seem to ignore. This is when their choices, or better yet their lack of choices, start to backfire with full force.

This time, however, she is the one to derange the peace. Her question confuses Madge to the point of thinking too much, until she finally reaches an acceptable conclusion. A rather plausible conclusion.

"How do you make it work? You and Gale," Katniss clarifies. She locates a crumpled piece of paper on the narrow kitchen countertop and takes it in her hands, her eyes skimming over the clean handwriting—Prim's handwriting. In reality, she is only using excuses to present the current issue as an insignificant one.

"What do you mean?"

"How doesn't a long-distance relationship tire you out?"

Prim's relationship ended well, but _ended_ nevertheless.

She feels the heat creeping up her face as she speaks, considering she has never discussed such a personal topic with Madge before. Of course there have been more private issues she has not kept secret from her, but initiating this sort of conversation with her is still a first.

"Well, for one it's no _long_-distance relationship. I can drive there whenever I please," she reminds her. "And then there's the fact that if you really want something, you do whatever is in your power to have it. You become creative. You start searching for loopholes, ways around the difficulties, regardless how magnificent they are."

Katniss's facial features rightfully contort until her suspicious frown is easily distinguished. The sight of her slowly trying to digest the information is what cracks Madge up. She soon recovers, though, muttering a soft apology.

"Why are you even laughing at me?" Irritating Katniss was never among her intentions.

Madge shakes her head dismissively. "It's nothing," she admits. "I'm just saying that if you are sure you want Peeta, then should be nothing holding you back."

"Wh-what? I never said anything about this," Katniss stammers nervously. Suddenly, holding Madge's gaze seems like the most unattainable deed on earth. However, she somehow manages to persuade herself she won't be the first to break.

"But you never actually asked me about Gale, did you?"

As the blonde girl pronounces the statement out loud, Katniss realizes how obvious she has been, although she never wished for it. And of course she wouldn't ask such things about Gale out of the blue; it is not her business to pry.

She replays Madge's words over and over again in her head, coming up with a decent enough answer to offer. But she doesn't _want_ Peeta. Well, maybe she does, but this would be only one of the aspects that characterize her feelings. Physical attraction is not exactly what she has been obsessing over for as long as she has been apart from him. Every single emotion connected to it is.

(She clearly remembers starting to bond with him because of his way with words as well as deep understanding of what tormented her.)

Then again, Madge has seen nothing other than the brief, desperate exchange (the one she started) at the hospital between them. Although what she has inferred about them might be more than what she claims to know, she has chosen safe, valid words to confront Katniss.

Eventually, Katniss offers a small movement of her head, confirming the fact.

"I didn't think so," Madge responds knowingly. "I meant what I said. You should go."

"Go when? There's no time for that," she tells Madge with a frown. "I already have a never-ending list of things that have to be finished here before this evening. Tomorrow afternoon is my first shift at the diner. And I intend on supporting Prim for as long as she needs me."

"Make time for that," the mayor's daughter encourages. "Instead of worrying about what you can't do, focus on what you _can_ do." Katniss parts her lips to protest. "You'd be surprised," Madge cuts her off.

Katniss blinks tiredly at her. Her bones might not ache in the way they once used to, but she does feel exhausted; tired of fighting what she wants.

"When's your day off?"

Katniss scratches the back of her head, processing the question. Disappointment floods her before she even utters the words. "I don't have any days off. I'll be working a few hours daily."

Madge's pupils dilate in surprise. "That can't be right. You must have at least one day off. Mondays? Wednesdays? What about Sundays?" she presses.

The brunette shrugs. "The diner isn't open on Sundays anyway," she states.

"Bingo! These are Peeta's free days as well. Tell me your shifts end early on Saturdays and it'll all be settled."

A quiet laugh follows her eagerness. "I'd wish," Katniss replies. She—_of course_—has no such luck. Not that she has any clue of what might be going on in her best friend's head at the moment.

"Visit on Sunday," Madge still insists. "I'll drop you there. It will be a good chance for me to keep my promise to Posy." She notices Katniss's odd glance. "Last time I went there, she asked me to show her my pink ribbons. I can't exactly decline," she reasons, even though it is pretty evident she thoroughly enjoys her time at the Hawthornes'. Her and Hazelle—Gale's mother—ended up getting on pretty well.

Katniss exhales soundly, averting her eyes one more time. "I'll think about it," she announces, turning on her heel, leaving Madge to smile widely all by herself in the narrow kitchen.

The words ring in her ears in the most familiar way possible. There is no doubt she has heard them before.

**.**

**.**

She presses her lips tightly together, concentrating on the sound of Madge's car disappearing somewhere in the distance. She momentarily holds onto whatever seems close to her while she tries to pack up the courage she needs to move forward, to reach the doorstep within her eyesight.

She approaches as much as her feet will allow and hesitates for a long moment, debating with herself whether she should knock and wait for him to invite her in or take the initiative and make her presence known in an entirely different way.

There's an ache in her chest when she remembers that she shouldn't have the rights and liberties she once used to in this house. So, she presses her balled fist to her mouth, clearing her throat and finally moves forward.

Her index finger remains pressed on the small button that will signal her arrival—the doorbell—for less than two seconds. She uncomfortably shifts her weight from one foot to another, unconsciously playing with the small thread escaping the seam of her jeans' left pocket.

She stands there, waiting, for a couple of minutes, before she considers the fact that Peeta might not even be home. Reluctant to ring the doorbell again, she allows the small expulsion of air to pass through her lips. She collapses on the first, lowest step, covering her face with both of her palms.

It's not like she feels she's lost her time by coming here. She just doesn't know what to do with it now her plans have been ruined. (Not that she truly had plans in the first place.) Calling Madge seems absurd for multiple reasons.

Her train of thought is unexpectedly interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open behind her. She turns her head in surprise, coming face to face with her equally taken aback former roommate. She instantly lets go of the tiny thread, never breaking eye contact.

"Katniss?" he calls, the uncertainty crystal clear in his voice. She nods twice.

"Why are you sitting down there?" he asks puzzled.

She squirms a little, managing to have a better view of him. "I thought you weren't here. I wasn't sure what to do about it," she confesses.

"Sorry it took me a while," he says in response. "I was upstairs." She bobs her head in comprehension once more. "Would you like to come inside?"

"Yes." Her answer might be too quick, too eager for her usual taste, but she has nothing to hide from him. She wouldn't have come, if she hadn't known she was sure about appreciating what he has done for her sake.

She balances herself on her feet, instinctively wiping her pants, making the wrinkles on the fabric disappear. She looks up to see that his back is to her already, for he is walking further inside the house. She doesn't hesitate to follow him this time, and he soon leads her to the living room, where he all too often hosts his temporary guests. (But also where they have a plethora of memories with each other.)

A pang of panic knocks the breath out of her lungs when she notices his hands—the same blood-colored hands she has dreamed of so many times since her sister's accident. He notices the veil of dread hovering over her and rushes to offer an explanation, the one that represents the truth.

"It's paint," he reassures her. "I've been painting," he adds for good measure, although she seems to have gotten the message by now. The last bit of information he just shared with her piques her interest.

"Really?"

A mixture of wonder and longing laces her voice as she recalls the last time she watched him paint. Even though this is definitely not something he tried while they were living under the same roof, his talent for expressing himself through art intrigues her. He might not have drawings and paintings to display, but the bakery _is_ art. His love for decorating cakes, frosting cookies, or even molding the dough bread is made of _is_ art.

Peeta shrugs in response. "I've got plenty of hours to kill today."

She is aware. It is one of the reasons—not the main one, but still—she chose to return to District Twelve on a Sunday morning.

Her fingers travel downwards. There it is; the thin, nearly invisible string hanging from her pocket. She almost hears herself asking for a pair of scissors.

Guilt eats away at her. She could help him fill up his free hours three weeks ago. She can do it right at this moment. But she still doesn't know how to tell him she can.

"So…" He trails off, maintaining the silence. He runs a hand through his hair, unknowingly revealing the extent of his jumpiness. He hastily lets it fall back down once he catches her staring.

"Make yourself at home. I need to scrub my hands clean." He examines his palms for emphasis. "I'll be right back," he announces. Yet he doesn't attempt to move his feet, which look as if they're glued to the floor.

He takes her in and she struggles to eliminate her urge to pull her bottom lip between her teeth. "Is anything wrong?" Although the worry is undeniable, his confusion overpowers it by far.

"No," she says. "Nothing. I just can't imagine spending my Sundays in town."

"Oh." He seals his parted lips, until her words finally register and his whole face breaks into an inevitable, contagious grin. "I'll be right back," he repeats. Instead of reaching one of the bathrooms, he heads towards the direction of the kitchen. Not particularly fond of making herself comfortable, as he phrased it, she walks to one of the orange curtains, gently pulling it aside to gawk at the backyard. She smiles to herself as she spots the small basketball court.

The sound of Peeta's footsteps snaps her out of her reverie. He returns, approaching her. The sheepish smile he gives her is all she needs to close the distance between them, embracing him tightly.

"I've missed you," she mumbles against him, feeling his arms envelop her as well. He brushes the small of her back.

"I've missed you more," he retorts. "The house has been empty."

She gazes at him apologetically after she drops her hands to her sides. "If you need help with anything…"

"Nah, it's alright. I'll live. How are you doing?"

Suddenly, she feels as if those three weeks she spent without him never existed. She remembers listening to him talk about a bakery he loves to run, and telling him about her usually uneventful days. The sweet, familiar coziness leaves a delicious tingling on her skin, warming her to the very core.

So after, when she admits _she wants to try _(because it is something she can do, as she has decided) and the hope flickers in his azure eyes, the anxiousness is long forgotten.

She promises to come back every Sunday. He promises to call every day. They agree to spend Christmas here, with Prim.

And when he kisses her cheek, she snuggles closer against him on the couch, forming one and only coherent thought in the head that is no more filled with unrest and distress. This is where she belongs.

Always.

* * *

**~fin.**


End file.
